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Hyperion, by H. W, Longfellow. .20 
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The Happy Boy, by BjOrnson 10 

Arne, by Bjornson 10 

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Seekers «fter God, by Farrar 20 

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the Courtier, by Lord Lytton.. 10 
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A Marriage in High Life 20 

Robin, by Mrs. Parr 20 

Two on a Tower, by Thos. Hardy.20 
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Alice, or, the Mysteries, being 

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Baron Munchausen 10 

A Princess of Thule, by Black.. 20 
The Secret Despatch, by Grant, 20 
Early Days of Christianity, by 

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Early Days of Christianity, Pt. 11.20 
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Progress and Poverty, by Henry 

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The Spy, by Cooper 20 

East Lynne, br Mrs. Wood... 20 
A Strange Story, by Lord Lytton.. .20 

Adam Bede, by Eliot, Part 1 15 

Adam Bede, Part II 15 

The Golden Shaft, by Gibbon. . . .20 

Portia, by The Duchess 20 

Last Days of Pompeii, by Lytton. . 20 
The Two Duchesses, by Mathey. .20 
Tom Brown'B School Days 20 



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ander.Partl 15 

The Wooing OH, Part II 15 

63. The Vendetta, by Balzac 80 

64. Hypatia,byCha8.Kingpley,P'tI.15 
Hypatia, bv Kingsley, Part IL. ..15 

65. Selma, by Mrs. J . G. Smith 15 

66. Margaret and her Bridesmaids. .20 

67. Horse Shoe Robinson, Part I 15 

Horse Shoe Robinson, Part II. . . 15 

68. Gulliver's Travels, by Swift 20 

69. Amos Barton, by George Eliot... 10 

70. The Berber, by W. E. Mayo 20 

71. Silas Marner, by George Eliot. . .10 

72. The Queen of the County 20 

73. Life of Cromwell, by Hood... 15 

74. Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Bront^.20 

75. Child's History of England 20 

76. Molly Bawn, by The Duchess. . .20 

77. Pillone, bv William BergsOe 15 

78. Phyllis, by The Ducheee 20 

79. Romola, by Geo. Eliot,<Part I. . .15 
Romola, by Geo. Eliot, ?art II. . 15 

80. Science in Short Chapters 20 

81. Zanoni, by Lord Lytton 20 

82. A Daughter of Heth 20 

83. The Right and Wrong Uses of 

the Bible, R. Heber Newton... 20 

84. Night and Morning, Pt. 1 15 

Night and Morning, Part II 15 

85. Shandon Bells, by Wm. Black.. 20 

86. Monica, by the Duchess ..10 

87. Heart and Science, by Collins. . .20 

88. The Golden Calf, by Braddon. . .20 

89. The Dean's Daughter 20 

90. Mrs. Geoffrey, by The Duchess.. 20 

91. Pickwick Papers, Part I...;.... 20 
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93. Airy, Fairy Lilian, The Duchess. 20 

93. McLeod of Dare, by Wm. Black. 20 

94. Tempest Tossed, by Tilton. P't I 20 
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95. Letters from High Latitudes, by 

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96. Gideon Fleyce, by Lucy 20 

97. India and Ceylon, by E. Hseckel . .20 

98. The Gypsy Queen 20 

99. The Admiral's Ward 20 

100. Nimport, by E. L. Bynner, P't I . .15 
Niraport, byE. L. Bynner, P't II. 15 

101. Harry Holbrooke 20 

102. Tritons, by E. L. Bynner, P't I . . . ] 5 
Tritons, by E.L. Bynner, P til. .15 

103. Let Nothing You Dismay, by 

Walter Besant 10 

104. Lady Audley's Secret, by Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

105. Woman's Place To-day, by Mrs. 

Lillie Devereux Blake 20 

106. Dunallan, by Kennedy, Parti. . .15 
Dunallan, by Kennedy, Part II. .15 

107. Housekeeping and Home-mak- 

ing, by Marion Ilarland 15 

108. No New Thing, by W.E.Norris.20 

109. The Spoopendyke Papers 20 

110. False Hopes, by Goldwin Smith. 15 

111. Labor and Capital 20 

112. Wanda, by Ouida, Part 1 16 

Wanda, by Ouida, Part II 15 




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THE SPOOPENDYKE PAPERS, by Stanley Huntley, of 
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A book of domestic scenes, between a nervous, petulent husband 
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PIKE COUNTY FOLKS, by E. H. Mott, of the N. Y. Sun, 
illustrated by F. Opper, of Puck. 
Truthful Talks in uncontrollable language — irresistibly funny. 

JETS AND FLASHES, by Henry Clay Lukens (Erratic En- 
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New York; JOHN W. L.OVEI.Ii CO., 14 &; 16 Ves^y St, 



THE 



PARIS SKETCH BOOK 



MR. M. A. TITMARSH 



BY 

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 



NEW YORK: 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, 

14 AND i6 Vesey Street. 

c I ^8 3 ^ 



t^ 






cf 



f 



DEDICATORY LETTER 

TO 

M. ARETZ, TAILOR, ETC. 

27 RUE RICHELIEU, PARIS. 



Sir, 

It becomes every man in his station to acknowledge and 
praise virtue wheresoever he may find it, and to point it out for 
the admiration and example of his fellow-men. 

Some months since, when you presented to the vriter of 
these pages a small account for coats and pantaloons manu- 
factured by you, and when you were met by a statement from 
your creditor, that an immediate settlement of your bill would 
be extremely inconvenient to him ; your reply was, " Mon Dieu, 
Sir, let not that annoy you ; if you want money, as a gentleman 
often does in a strange country, I have a thousand-franc note 
at my house which is quite at your service." 

History or experience. Sir, makes us acquainted with so 
few actions that can be compared to yours, — an offer like this 
from a stranger and a tailor seems to me so astonishing, that 
you must pardon me for thus making your virtue public, and 
acquainting the English nation with your merit and your nam.e. 
Let me add, Sir, that you live on the first floor ; that your 
clothes and tit are excellent, and your charges moderate and 
just ; and, as a humble tribute of my admiration, permit me to 
lay these volumes at your feet. 

Your obliged, faithful servant, 

M. A. TITMARSH. 



ADVERTISEMENT TO THE FIRST EDITION. 

About half of the sketches in these volumes have already 
appeared in print, in various periodical works. A part of the 
text of one tale and the plots of two others, have been borrowed 
from French originals ; the other stories, which are, in the 
main, true, have been written upon facts and characters that 
came within the Author's observation during a residence in 
Paris. 

As the remaining papers relate to public events which 
occurred during the same period, or to Parisian Art and Litera- 
ture, he has ventured to give his publication the title which it 
bears. 

London, j^uly i, 1840 



THE 

PARIS SKETCH BOOK, 



AN INVASION OF FRANCE. 

"Caesar venit in Galliam summa diligentia." 

About twelve o'clock, just as the bell of the packet is 
tolling a farewell to London Bridge, and warning off the black- 
guard boys with the newspapers, who have been shoving Times, 
Herald, Penny Paul-Fry, Penny Satirist, Flare-up, and other 
abominations into your face — just as the bell has tolled, and 
the Jews, strangers, people-taking-leave-of-their-families, and 
blackguard boys aforesaid, are making a rush for the narrow 
plank which conducts from the paddle-box of the " Emerald " 
steamboat unto the quay — you perceive, staggering down 
Thames Street, those two hackney-coaches, for the arrival of 
which you have been praying, trembling, hoping, despairing, 

swearing — sw , I beg your pardon, I believe the word is 

not used in polite company — and transpiring, for the last half- 
hour. Yes, at last, the two coaches draw near, and from thence 
an awful number of trunks, children, carpet-bags, nursery-maids, 
hat-boxes, bandboxes, bonnet-boxes,, desks, cloaks, and an 
affectionate wife, are discharged on the quay. 

" Elizabeth, take care of Miss Jane," screams that worthy 
woman, who has been for a fortnight employed in getting this 
tremendous body of ^roops and baggage into marching order. 
" Hicks ! Hicks ! for heaven's sake mind the babies ! " — 
"George — Edward, sir, if you go near that porter with the 



S. THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

trunk, he will tumble down and kill you, you naughty boy !— 
My love, do take the cloaks and umbrellas, and give a hand to 
Fanny and Lucy \ and I wish you would speak to the hackney- 
coachmen, dear, they want fifteen shillings, and count the 
packages, love — twenty-seven packages, — and bring little Flo ; 
Where's little Flo ? — Flo ! Flo ! " — (Flo comes sneaking in ; she 
has been speaking a few parting words to a one-eyed terrier, 
that sneaks off similarly, landward.) 

As when the hawk menaces the hen-roost, in like manner, 
when such a danger as a voyage menaces a mother, she becomes 
suddenly endowed with a ferocious presence of mind, and brist- 
ling up and screaming in the front of her brood, and^in the face 
of circumstances, succeeds, by her courage, in putting her enemy 
to flight ; in like manner you will always, I think, find your wife 
(if that lady be good for twopence) shrill, eager, and ill- 
humored, before and during a great family move of this nature. 
Well, the swindling hackney-coachmen are paid, the mother 
leading on her regiment of little ones, and supported by her 
auxiliar}^ nurse-maids, are safe in the cabin ; — you have counted 
twenty-six of the twenty-seven parcels, and have them on board, 
and that horrid man on the paddle-box, who, for twenty minutes 
past, has been roaring out, NOW, SIR ! — says fiow^ sir, no 
more. 

I never yet knew how a steamer began to move, being 
always too busy among the trunks and children, for the first 
half-hour, to mark any of the movements of the vessel. When 
these private arrangements are made, you find yourself opposite 
Greenwich (farewell, sweet, sweet whitebait !), and quiet begins 
to enter your soul. Your wife smiles for the first time these 
ten days ; you pass by plantations of ship-masts, and forests of 
steam-chimneys ; the sailors are singing on board the ships, the 
bargees salute you with oaths, grins, and phrases facetious and 
familiar ; the man on the paddle-box roars, " Ease her, stop 
her ! " which mysterious words a shrill voice from below repeats 
and pipes out, " Ease her, stop her ! " in echo ; the deck is 
crowded with groups of figures, and the sun shines over all. 

The sun shines over all, and the steward comes up to say, 
** Lunch, ladies and gentlemen ! Will any lady or gentleman 
please to take anythink ? " About a dozen do : boiled beef 
and pickles, and great red raw Cheshire cheese, tempt the 
epicure : little dumpy bottles of stout are produced, and fiz and 
bang about with a spirit one would neve^- have looked for in 
individuals of their size and stature. 

Th^ decks have a strange look ; the people on the.m, that is. 



AN INVASION OP FRANCE. 9 

Wives, elderly stout husbands, nurse-maids, and children pre- 
dominate, of course, in English steamboats. Such may be con- 
sidered as the distinctive marks of the English gentlemen at 
three or four and forty : two or three of such groups have 
pitched their camps on the deck. Then there are a number of 
young men, of whom three or four have allowed their mus- 
taches to begin to grow since last Friday ; for they are going " on 
the Continent," and they look, therefore, as if their upper lips 
were smeared with snuff. 

A danseuse from the opera is on her way to Paris. Followed 
by her bonne and her little dog, she paces the deck, stepping 
out, in the real dancer fashion, and ogling all around. How 
happy the two young Englishmen are, who can speak French, 
and make up to her : and how all criticise her points and paces ! 
Yonder is a group of young ladies, who are going to Paris to 
learn how to be governesses : those two splendidly dressed 
ladies are milliners from the Rue Richelieu, who have just 
brought over, and disposed of, their cargo of Summer fashions. 
Here sits the Rev. Mr. Snodgrass with his pupils, whom he is 
conducting to his establishment, near Boulogne, where, in addi- 
tion to a classical and mathematical education (washing in- 
cluded), the young gentlemen have the benefit of learning 
French among the Fre?ich themselves. Accordingly, the young 
gentlemen are locked up in a great rickety house, two miles 
from Boulogne, and never see a soul except the French usher 
and the cook. 

Some few French people are there already, preparing to be 
ill — (I never shall forget a dreadful sight I once had in the 
little dark, dirty, six-foot cabin of a Dover steamer. Four 
gaunt Frenchmen, but for their pantaloons, in the costume of 
Adam in Paradise, solemnly anointing themselves with some 
charm against sea-sickness !) — a few Frenchmen are there, but 
these, for the most part, and with a proper philosophy, go to 
the fore-cabin of the ship, and you see them on the fore-deck 
(is that the name for that part of the vessel which is in the re- 
gion of the bowsprit ?) lowering in huge cloaks and caps ; snuffy, 
wretched, pale, and wet ; and not jabbering now, as their wont 
is on shore. I never could fancy the Mounseers formidable at 
sea. 

There are, of course, many Jews on board. Who ever 
travelled by steamboat, coach, diligence, eilwagen, vetturino, 
mule-back, or sledge, without meeting some of the wandering 
race ? 

By the time these remarks have been made the steward is 



10 



THE PAkIS SJ^ETCII BOOA' 



on the deck again, and dinner is ready : and about two hours 
after dinner comes tea ; and then there is brandy-and-waler. 
which he eagerly presses as a preventive against what may 
happen ; and about this time you pass the Foreland, the wind 
blowing pretty fresh ; and the groups on deck disappear, and 
your wife, giving you an alarmed look, descends with her little 
ones, to the ladies' cabin, and you see the steward and his boys 
issuing from their den under the paddle-box, with each a heap 
of round tin vases, like those which are called, I believe, in 
America, expectoratoons, only these are larger. 

***** 

The wind blows, the water looks greener and more beautiful 
than ever — ridge by ridge of long white rock passes away. 
"That's Ramsgit," says the man at the helm ; and, presently, 
" That there'^ Deal — it's dreadful fallen off since the war ; " 
and " That's Dover, round that there pint, only you can't see 
it." And, in the meantime, the sun has plumped his hot face 
into the water, and the moon has shown hers as soon as ever 
his back is turned, and Mrs. — (the wife in general) has brought 
up her children and self from the horrid cabin, in which she 
says it is impossible to breathe ; and the poor little wretches 
are, by the officious stewardess and smart steward (expectora- 
toonifer), accommodated with a heap of blankets, pillows, and 
mattresses, in the midst of which they crawl, as best they may, 
and from the heaving heap of which are, during the rest of the 
voyage, heard occasional faint cries, and sounds of puking woe ! 

Dear, dear Maria ! Is this the woman who, anon, braved 
the jeers and brutal wrath of swindling hackney-coachmen ; 
who repelled the insolence of haggling porters, with a scorn 
that brought down their demands at least eighteenpence ? Is 
this the woman at whose voice servants tremble ; at the sound 
of whose steps the nursery, ay, and mayhap the parlor, is in 
order ? Look at her now, prostrate, prostrate — no strength 
has she to speak, scarce power to push to her youngest one — 
her suffering, struggling Rosa, — to push to her the — the instru- 
mentoon ! 

In the midst of all these throes and agonies, at which all the 
passengers, who have their own woes (you yourself — for how 
can you help them ? — you are on your back on a bench, and if 
you move all is up with you), are looking on indifferent — one 
man there is who has been watching 3^ou with the utmost care, 
and bestowing on your helpless family the tenderness that a 
father denies them. He is a foreigner, and you have been con- 
versing with him, in the course of the morning, in French — 



AN INVASION OF FRANCE. i j 

»vhich he says, you speak remarkably well, like a native in fact, 
and then in English (which, after all, you find is more conve- 
nient). What can express your gratitude to this gentleman, for 
all his goodness towards your family and yourself — you talk to 
him, he has served under the Emperor, and is, for all that, 
sensible, modest, and well-informed. He speaks, indeed, of his 
countrymen almost with contempt, and readily admits the 
superiority of a Briton, on the seas and elsewhere. One loves 
to meet with such genuine liberality in a foreigner, and respects 
the man who can sacrifice vanity to truth. This distinguished 
foreigner has travelled much ; he asks whither you are going ? 
— where you stop .'' if you have a great quantity of luggage on 
board ? — and laughs when he hears of the twenty-seven pack- 
ages, and hopes you have some friend at the custom-house, who 
can spare you the monstrous trouble of unpacking that which 
has taken you weeks to put up. Nine, ten, eleven, the distin- 
guished foreigner is ever at your side ; you find him now, per- 
haps (with characteristic ingratitude), something of a bore, but, 
at least, he has been most tender to the children and their 
mamma. At last as Boulogne light comes in sight, (you see it 
over the bows of the vessel, when, having bobbed violently up- 
wards, it sinks swiftly down,) Boulogne harbor is in sight, and 
the foreigner says, — 

The distinguished foreigner says, says he — " Sare, eef you 
af no 'otel, I sail recommend you, milor, to ze 'Otel Betfort, in 
ze Quay, sare, close to the bathing-machines and custom- 
ha-oose. Good bets and fine garten, sare ; table-d'hote, sare, 
k cinq heures ; breakfast, sare, in French or English style j — I 
am the commissionare, sare, and vill see to your loggish." 

* * * Curse the fellow, for an impudent, swindling, sneak- 
ing French humbug ! — Your tone instantly changes, and you 
tell him to go about his business : but at twelve o'clock at 
night, when the voyage is over, and the custom-house business 
done, knowing not whither to go, with a wife and fourteen ex- 
hausted children, scarce able to stand, and longing for bed, you 
find yourself, somehow, in the Hotel Bedford (and you can't be 
better), and smiling chambermaids carry off your children to 
snug beds ; while smart waiters produce for your honor — a cold 
fowl, say, and a salad, and a bottle of Bordeaux and Seltzer- 
water. 

***** 

The morning comes — I don't know a pleasanter feeling 
than that of waking with the sun shining on objects quite new, 
iiud (although vou have made the voyage a dozen times) quit^ 



12 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

Strange. Mrs. X. and you occupy a very light bed, which has 
a tall canopy of red ^^ percale ; " the windows are smartly draped 
with cheap gaudy calicoes and muslins ; there are little mean 
strips of carpet about the tiled floor of the room, and yet all 
seems as gay and as comfortable as may be — the sun shines 
brighter than you have seen it for a year, the sky is a thousand 
times bluer, and what a cheery clatter of shrill quick French 
voices comes up from the court-yard under the windows ! Bells 
are jangling ; a family, mayhap, is going to Paris e7i poste, and 
wondrous is the jabber of the courier, the postilion, the inn- 
waiters, and the lookers-on. The landlord calls out for 

" Quatre biftecks aux pommes pour le trente-tois," (O my 

countrymen, I love your tastes and your ways !) — the chamber- 
maid is laughing and says, " Finissez done. Monsieur Pierre ! " 
(what can they be about .'') — a fat Englishman has opened his 
window violently, and says, " Dee dong, garsong, vooly voo me 
donny lo sho, ou vooly voo pah 1 " He has been ringing for 
half an hour — the last energetic appeal succeeds, and shortly 
he is enabled to descend to the coffee-room, where, with three 
hot rolls, grilled ham, cold fowl, and four boiled eggs, he makes 
what he calls his first French breakfast. 

It is a strange, mongrel, merry place, this town of Bou^ 
logne ; the little French fishermen's children are beautiful, and 
the little French soldiers, four feet high, red-breeched, with 
huge pompons on their caps, and brown faces, and clear sharp 
eyes, look for all their littleness, far more military and more in- 
telligent than the heavy louts one has seen swaggering about 
the garrison towns in England. Yonder go a crowd of bare- 
legged fishermen ; there is the town idiot, mocking a woman 
who is screaming " Fleuve du Tage," at an inn-window, to a 
harp, and there are the little gamins mocking him. Lo ! these 
seven young ladies, with red hair and green veils, they are 
from neighboring Albion, and going to bathe. Here come 
three Englishmen, habitues evidently of the place, — dandy speci- 
mens of our countrymen : one wears a marine dress, another 
has a shooting dress, a third has a blouse and a pair of guilt- 
less spurs — all have as much hair on the face as nature or art 
can supply, and all wear their hats very much on one side. 
Believe me, there is on the face of this world no scamp like an 
English one, no blackguard like one of these half-gentlemen, so 
mean, so low, so vulgar, — so ludicrously ignorant and con- 
ceited, so desperately heartless and depraved. 

But why, my dear sir, get into a passion ? — Take things 
Qoolly, As the poet l^as observed, " Those onl^ is gentlemen 



AN INVA SION OF FRA NCR. 1 3 

who behave as sich ;" with such, then, consort, be they cob- 
blers or dukes. Don't give us, cries the patriotic reader, any 
abuse of our fellow-countrymen (anybody else can do that), but 
rather continue in that good-humored, facetious, descriptive 
style, with which your letter has commenced. — Your remark, 
sir, is perfectly just, and does honor to your head and excellent 
heart 

There is little need to give a description of the good town 
of Boulogne : which, haute and basse, with the new lighthouse 
and the new harbor, and the gas-lamps, and the manufactures, 
and the convents, and the number of English and French resi- 
dents, and the pillar erected in honor of the grand Armee 
d'Angleterre, so called because it didn't go to England, have all 
been excellently described by the facetious Coglan, the learned 
Dr. Millingen, and by innumerable guide-books besides. A 
fine thing it is to hear the stout old Frenchmen of Napoleon's 
time argue how that audacious Corsican would have marched 
to London, after swallowing Nelson and all his gunboats, but 
for cette malheureuse guerre d Espagne and cette glorieuse cam- 
pagne d Autriche, which the gold of Pitt caused to be raised at 
the Emperor's tail, in order to call him off from the helpless 
country in his front. Some Frenchmen go farther still, and 
vow that in Spain they were never beaten at all ; indeed, if you 
read in the Biographie des Hommes du Jour, article " Soult," 
you will fancy that, with the exception of the disaster at Vit- 
toria, the campaigns in Spain and Portugal were a series of 
triumphs. Only, by looking at a map, it is observable that 
Vimeiro is a mortal long way from Toulouse, where, at the end 
of certain years of victories, we somehow find the honest Mar- 
shal. And what then? — he went to Toulouse for the purpose 
of beating the English there, to be sure ; — a known fact, on 
which comment would be superfluous. However, we shall 
never get to Paris at this rate ; let us break off further palaver, 
and away at once. * * * 

(During this pause, the ingenious reader is kindly requested 
to pay his bill at the Hotel at Boulogne, to mount the Diligence 
of Laffitte, Caillard and Company, and to travel for twenty-five 
hours, amidst much jingling of harness-bells and screaming of 
postilions.) 

The French milliner, who occupies one of the corners, be- 
gins to remove the greasy pieces of paper which have enveloped 
her locks during the journey. She withdraws the " Madras " 
of dubious hue which has bound her head for the last five-and- 



14 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK, 

twenty hours, and replaces it by the black velvet bonnet, which, 
bobbing against your nose, has hung from the Diligence roof 
since your departure from Boulogne. The old lady in the op- 
posite corner, who has been sucking bonbons, and smells 
dreadfully of anisette, arranges her little parcels in that im- 
mense basket of abominations which all old women carry in 
their laps. She rubs her mouth and eyes with her dusty cam- 
bric handkerchief, she ties up her nightcap into a little bundle, 
and replaces it by a more becoming head-piece, covered with 
withered artificial flowers, and crumpled tags of ribbon ; she 
looks wistfully at the company for an instant, and then places 
her handkerchief before her mouth : — her eyes roll strangely 
about for an instant, and you hear a faint clattering noise : the 
old lady has been getting ready her teeth, which had lain in 
her basket among the bonbons, pins, oranges, pomatum, bits of 
cake, lozenges, prayer-books, peppermint-water, copper money, 
and false hair — stowed away there during the voyage. The 
Jewish gentleman, who has been so attentive to the milliner 
during the journey, and is a traveller and bagman by profession, 
gathers together his various goods. The sallow-faced English 
lad, who has been drunk ever since we left Boulogne yester- 
day, and is coming to Paris to pursue the study of medicine, 
swears that he rejoices to leave the cursed Diligence, is sick of 
the infernal journey, and d — d glad that the d — d voyage is so 
nearly over. ^^ Enjin/'^ says your neighbor, yawning, and in- 
serting an elbow into the mouth of his right and left hand com- 
panion, "w^wi" £-'(?z7iZ." 

Nous VoiLA !— We are at Paris ! This must account for 
the removal of the milliner's curl-papers, and the fixing of the 
old lady's teeth. — Since the last relais, the Diligence has been 
travelling with extraordinary speed. The postilion cracks his 
terrible whip, and screams shrilly. The conductor blows in- 
cessantly on his horn, the bells of the harness, the bumping 
and ringing of the wheels and chains, and the clatter of the 
great hoofs of the heavy snorting Norman stallions, have won- 
drousiy increased within this, the last ten minutes ; and the 
Diligence, which has been proceeding hitherto at the rate of a 
league in an hour, now dashes gallantly forward as if it would 
traverse at least six miles in the same space of time. Thus it 
is, when Sir Robert maketh a speech at Saint Stephen's — he 
useth his strength at the beginning, only, and the end. He 
gallopeth at the commencement ; in the middle he lingers ; at 
the close, again, he rouses the House, which has fallen asleep ; 
he cracketh the whip of his satire ; he shputs th^ shout of his 



AN- INVASION OF PRANCE. 



^s 



patriotism ; and, urging his eloquence to its roughest canter, 
awakens the sleepers, and inspires the weary, until men say, 
What a wondrous orator ! What a capital coach ! We will 
ride henceforth in it, and in no other ! 

But, behold us at Paris ! The Diligence has reached a 
rude-looking gate, ox grille^ flanked by two lodges ; the French 
Kings of old made their entry by this gate ; some of the hottest 
battles of the late revolution were fought before it. At present, 
it is blocked by carts and peasants, and a busy crowd of men, 
in green, examining the packages before they enter, probing 
the straw with long needles. It is the Barrier of St. Denis, 
and the green men are the customs'-men of the city of Paris. 
If you are a countryman, who would introduce a cow into the 
metropolis, the city demands twenty-four francs for such a 
privilege : if you have a hundredweight of tallow-candles, you 
must, previously, disburse three francs : if a drove of ho^^s, nine 
francs per whole hog : but upon these subjects Mr. Bulwer, 
Mrs. Trollope, and other writers, have already enlightened the 
public. In the present instance, after a momentary pause, one 
of the men in green mounts by the side of the conductor, and 
the ponderous vehicle pursues its journey. 

The street which we enter, that of the Faubourg St. Denis, 
presents a strange contrast to the dark uniformity of a London 
street, where everything, in the dingy and smoky atmosphere, 
looks as though it were painted in India-ink — black houses, 
black passengers, and black sky. Here, on the contrary, is a 
thousand times more life and color. Before you, shining in 
the sun, is a long glistening line of gutter^ — not a very pleasing 
object in a city, but in a picture invaluable. On each side are 
houses of all dimensions and hues ; some but of one story ; 
some as high as the tower of Babel. From these the haber- 
dashers (and this is their favorite street) flaunt long strips of 
gaudy calicoes, which give a strange air of rude gayety to the 
street. Milk-women, with a little crowd of gossips round each, 
are, at this early hour of morning, selling the chief material of 
the Parisian 'cafe-au-lait. Gay wine-shops, painted red, and 
smartly decorated with vines and gilden railings, are filled 
with workmen taking their morning's draught. That gloomy- 
looking prison on your right is a prison for women ; once it 
was a convent for Lazarists : a thousand unfortunate individuals 
of the softer sex now occupy that mansion : they bake, as we 
find in the guide-books^ the bread of all the other prisons; 
they mend and wash the shirts and stockings of all the other 
prisoners ; they make hooks-and-eyes and phosphorus boxes, 



1 6 THE PARTS SKETCH BOOK. 

and they attend chapel every Sunday : — if occupation can help 
them, sure they have enough of it. Was it not a great stroke of 
the legislature to superintend the morals and linen at once, 
and thus keep these poor creatures continually mending? — But 
we have passed the prison long ago, and are at the Porte St. 
Denis itself. 

There is only time to take a hasty glance as we pass : it 
commemorates some of the wonderful feats of arms of Ludovicus 
Magnus, and abounds in ponderous allegories — nymphs, and 
river-gods, and pyramids crowned with fleurs-de-lis ; Louis pass- 
ing over the Rhine in triumph, and the Dutch Lion giving up 
the ghost, in the year of our Lord 1672. The Dutch Lion 
revived, and overcame the man some years afterwards ; but of 
this fact, singularly enough, the inscriptions make no mention. 
Passing, then, round the gate, and not under it (after the 
general custom, in respect of triumphal arches), you cross the 
boulevard, which gives a glimpse of trees and sunshine, and 
gleaming whUe buildings ; then, dashing down the Rue de 
Bourbon Villeneuve, a dirty street, which seems interminable, 
and the Rue St. Eustache, the conductor gives a last blast on 
his horn, and the great vehicle clatters into the court-yard, 
where its journey is destined to conclude. 

If there was a noise before of screaming postilions and 
cracked horns, it was nothing to the Babel-like clatter which 
greets us now. We are in a great court, which Haji Baba 
would call the father of Diligences. Half a dozen other coaches 
arrive at the same minute— no light affairs, like your English 
vehicles, but ponderous machines, containing fifteen passengers 
inside, more in the cabriolet, and vast towers of luggage on the 
roof : others are loading : the yard is filled with passengers 
coming or departing ; — bustling porters and screaming comtnis- 
sionaires. These latter seize you as you descend from your 
place, — twenty cards are thrust into your hand, and as many 
voices, jabbering with inconceivable swiftness, shriek into your 
ear, " Dis way, sare ; are you for ze ' 'Otel of Rhin "i ' ' Hotel 
(U VAmirauiel ' — ' Hotel Bristol,' sare ! — Monsieur T Hotel de 
Lille ? ' Sacr-rrre ^no?n de Dieu, laissez passer ce petit ^ Monsieur I 
Ow mosh loggish ave you, sare 1 " 

And now, if you are a stranger in Paris, listen to the words of 
Titmarsh. — If you cannot speak a syllable of French, and love 
English comfort, clean rooms, breakfasts, and waiters ; if you 
would have plentiful dinners, and are not particular (as how 
should you be?) concerning wine ; if, in this foreign country, 
you 2£//7/have your English companions, your porter, your friend, 



An INVASION OF FRANCE. 1^ 

and your brandy-and-water — do not listen to any of these com- 
missioner fellows, but with your best English accent, shout out 
boldly, " Meurice ! " and straightway a man will step forward 
to conduct you to the Rue de Rivoli. 

Here you will find apartments at any price : a very neat 
room, for instance, for three francs daily ; an English breakfast 
of eternal boiled eggs, or grilled ham ; a nondescript dinner, 
profuse but cold ; and a society which will rejoice your heart. 
Here are young gentlemen from the universities ; young mer- 
chants on a lark ; large families of nine daughters, with fat 
father and mother ; officers of dragoons, and lawyers' clerks. 
The last time we dined at " Meurice's '' we hobbed and nobbed 
with no less a person than Mr. Moses, the celebrated bailiff of 
Chancery Lane ; Lord Brougham was on his right, and a clergy- 
man's lady, with a train of white-haired girls, sat on his left, 
wonderfully taken with the diamond rings of the fascinating 
stranger ! 

It is, as you will perceive, an admirable way to see Paris, 
especially if you spend your days reading the English papers 
at Galignani's, as many of our foreign tourists do. 

But all this is promiscuous, and not to the purpose. If, — 
to continue on the subject of liotel choosing, — if you love quiet, 
heavy bills, and the best table-d'hote in the city, go, O stranger! 
to the Hotel des Princes ; " it is close to the Boulevard, and 
convenient for Frascati's. The " Hotel Mirabeau " possesses 
scarcely less attraction ; but of this you will find, in Mr. 
Bulwer's "Autobiography of Pelham," a faithf^il and complete 
account. " Lawson's Hotel " has likewisejts merits, as also the 
" Hotel de Lille," which may be described as a " second chop " 
Meurice. 

If you are a poor student come to study the humanities, or 
the pleasant art of amputation, cross the water forthwith, and 
proceed to the " Hotel Corneille," near the Ode'on, or others 
of its species ; there are many where you can live royally (until 
you economize by going into lodgings) on four francs a day ; 
and where, if by any strange chance you are desirous for a 
while to get rid of your countrymen, you will find that they 
scarcely ever penetrate. 

But above all, O my countrymen ! shun boarding-houses, 
especially if you have ladies in your train ; or ponder well, and 
examine the characters of the keepers thereof, before you lead 
your innocent daughters, and their mamma, into places so dan- 
gerous. In the first place, you have bad dinners ; and, sec- 
ondly, bad company. If you play cards, you are very likely 

2 



1 8 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

playing with a swindler ; if you dance, you dance with a 

person with whom you had better have nothing to do. 

Note (which ladies are requested not to read). — In one of these establishments, daily ad- 
vertised as most eligible for English, a friend of the writer lived. A lady, who had passed 
for some time as the wife of one of the inmates, suddenly changed her husband and name, 
her original husband remaining in the house, and saluting her by her new title. 



A CAUTION TO TRAVELLERS. 

A MILLION dangers and snares await the traveller, as soon 
as he issues out of that vast messagerie which we have just 
quitted : and as each man cannot do better than relate such 
events as have happened in the course of his own" experience, 
and may keep the unwary from the path of danger, let us take 
this, the very earliest opportunity, of imparting to the public a 
little of the wisdom which we painfully have acquired. 

And first, then, with regard to the city of Paris, it is to be 
remarked, that in that metropolis flourish a greater number of 
native and exotic swindlers than are to be found in any other 
European nursery. What young Englishman that visits it, but 
has not determined, in his heart, to have a little share of the 
gayeties that go on — just for once, just to see what they are like ? 
How many, when the horrible gambling dens were open, did 
resist a sight of them ? — nay, was not a young fellow rather 
flattered by a dinner invitation from the Salon, whither he went, 
fondly pretending that he should see " French society," in the 
persons of certain Dukes and Counts who used to frequent the 
place ? 

My friend Pogson is a young fellow, not much worse, 
although perhaps a little weaker and simpler than his neigh- 
bors j and coming to Paris with exactly the same notions that 
bring many others of the British youth to that capital, events 
befell him there, last winter, which are strictly true, and shall 
here be narrated, by way of warning to all. 

Pog, it must be premised, is a city man, who travels m 
drugs for a couple of the best London houses, blows the flute, 
has an album, drives his own gis:, and is considered, both on 
the road and in the metropolis, a remarkably nice, intelligent, 
thriving young man. Pogson's only fault is too great an attach- 
ment to the fair : — " the sex," as he says often, " will be his 
ruin : " the fact is, that Pog never travels without a " Doa 



A CAUTION TO TRAVELLERS. 



19 



Juan" under his driving-cushion, and is a pretty-looking young 
fellow enough. 

Sam Pogson had occasion to visit Paris, last October ; and 
it was in that city that his love of the sex had liked to have 
cost him dear. He worked his way down to Dover ; placing, 
right and left, at the towns on his route, rhubarb, sodas, and 
other such delectable wares as his masters dealt in (" the sweet- 
est sample of castor oil, smelt like a nosegay — went off like 
wildhre — hogshead and a half at Rochester, eight -and-twenty 
gallons at Canterbury," and so on), and crossed to Calais, and 
thence voyaged to Paris in the coupe of the Diligence. He 
paid for two places, too, although a single man, and the reason 
shall now be made known. 

Dining at the table-d'' hbte at " Quillacq's " — it is the best inn 
on the Continent of Europe — our little traveller had the happi- 
ness to be placed next to a lady, who was, he saw at a glance, 
one of the extreme pink of the nobility. A large lady, in black 
satin, with eyes and hair as black as sloes, with gold chains, 
scent-bottles, sable tippet, worked pocket-handkerchief, and 
four twinkling rings on each of her plump white fingers. Her 
cheeks were as pink as the finest Chinese rouge could make 
them. Pog knew the article : he travelled in it. Her lips 
were as red as the ruby lip salve : she used the very best, that 
was clear. 

She was a fine-looking woman, certainly (holding down her 
eyes, and talking perpetually of " ijics tt-ente-deux aiis ") ; and 
Pogson, the wicked young dog, who professed not to care for 
young misses, saying they smelt so of bread and butter, declared 
at once, that the lady was one of his beauties ; in fact, when he 
spoke to us about her, he said, " She's a slap-up thing, I tell 
you ; a reg'lar good o?ie of viy sort /" And such was Pogson's 
credit in all commercial rooms, that one of his sort was con- 
sidered to surpass all other sorts. 

During dinner-time, Mr. Pogson was profoundly polite and 
attentive to the lady at his side, and kindly communicated to 
her, as is the way with the best-bred English on their first ar- 
rival "on the Continent," all his impressions regarding the 
sights and persons he had seen. Such remarks having been 
made during half an hour's ramble about the ramparts and 
town, and in the course of a walk down to the custom-house, 
and a confidential communication with the covimissiofiaire^ must 
be, doubtless, very valuable to Frenchmen in their own coun- 
try ; and the lady listened to Pogson's opinions : not only with 
bene\ olent att^ntionj but actually, she said, with pleasure and 



2 o THE PARIS SKE TCH B'OOK, 

delight. Mr. Pogson said that there was no such thing as good 
meat in France, and that's why they cooked their victuals in 
this queer way ; he had seen many soldiers parading about 
the place, and expressed a true Englishman's abhorrence of 
an armed force; not that he feared such fellows as these — 
little whipper-snappers — our men would eat them. Hereupon 
the lady admitted that pur guards were angels, but that Mon- 
sieur must not be too hard upon the French ; " her father was 
a General of the Emperor." 

Pogson felt a tremendous respect for himself at the notion 
that he was dining with a General's daughter, and instantly 
ordered a bottle of champagne to keep up his consequence. 

" Mrs. Bironn, ma'am," said he, for he had heard the waiter 
call her by some such name, "if you will accept a glass of 
champagne, ma'am, you'll do me, I'm sure, great honor: they 
say it's very good, and a precious sight cheaper than it is on 
our side of the way, too — not that I care for money. Mrs. 
Bironn, ma'am, your health, ma'am." 

The lady smiled very graciously, and drank the wine. 

" Har you any relation, ma'am, if I may make so bold ; har 
you anyways connected with the family of our immortal bard ? " 

" Sir, I beg your pardon." 

" Don't mention it, ma'am : but bironn and ^^Ton are 
hevidently the same names, only you pronounce in the French 
way ; and I thought you might be related to his lordship : his 
horigin, ma'am, was of French extraction : " and here Pogson 
began to repeat, — 

" Hare thy heyes like thy mother's, my fair child, 
Hada! sole daughter of my 'ouse and 'art ?" 

" Oh ! " said the lady, laughing, " you speak of Lor Byron } " 

" Hauthor of 'Don Juan,' ' Child ''Arold,' and ' Cain, a Mys- 
tery,' " said Pogson : — " I do ; and hearing the waiter calling 
you Madam la Bironn, took the liberty of basking whether you 
were connected with his lordship ; that's hall : " and my friend 
here grew dreadfully red, and began twiddling his long ringlets 
in his fingers, and examining very eagerly the contents of iris 
plate. 

"Oh, no: Madame la Baronne means Mistress Baroness 
my husband was Baron, and I am Baroness." 

" What ! 'ave I the honor — I beg your pardon, ma'am — is 
your ladyship a Baroness, and I not know it ? pray excuse me 
for calling you ma'am." 

'J'he Baroness smiled most graciously — with such a look ^s 



A CAUTION- TO TRAVELLERS. 2i 

Juno cast upon unfortunate Jupiter when she wished to gain 
her wicked ends upon him — the Baroness smiled ; and, stealing 
her hand into a black velvet bag, drew from it an ivory card- 
case, and from the ivory card-case extarcted a glazed card, 
printed in gold ; on it was engraved a coronet, and under the 
coronet the words 



BARONNE DE FLORVAL-DELVAL, 

NEE DE MELVAL-NORVAL. 

Rue Taitbmt 



The grand Pitt diamond — the Queen's own star of the 
garter — a sample of otto-of-roses at a guinea a drop, would not 
be handled more curiously, or more respectfully, than this por- 
celain card of the Baroness. Trembling he put it into his little 
Russia-leather pocketbook : and when he ventured to look up, 
and saw the eyes of the Baroness de Florval-Delval, nee de 
Melval-Norval, gazing upon^ him with friendly and serene 
glances, a thrill of pride tingled through Pogson's blood : he 
felt himself to be the very happiest fellow *' on the Continent." 

But Pogson did not, for some time, venture to resume that 
sprightly and elegant familiarity which generally forms the great 
charm of his conversation ! he was too much frightened at the 
presence he was in, and contented himself by graceful and 
solemn bows, deep attention, and ejaculations of " Yes, my 
lady," and " No, your ladyship," for some minutes after the 
discovery had been made. Pogson piqued himself on his 
breeding: "I hate the aristocracy," he said, "but that's no 
reason why I shouldn't behave like a gentleman." 

A surly, silent little gentleman, who had been the third at 
the ordinary, and would take no part either in the conversation 
or in Pogson's champagne, now took up his hat, and, grunting, 
left the room, when the happy bagman had the delight of a 
tete-d-tetf. The Baroness did not appear inclined to move : it 
was cold ; a fire was comfortable, and she had ordered none in 
her apartment. Might Pogson give her one more glass of 
champagne, or would her ladyship prefer " something hot." 
Her ladyship gravely said, she never took a?tyt/imghot. " Some 
champagne, then ; a leetle drop ? " She would ! she would ! 
O gods ! how Pogson's hand shook^s he filled and offered her 
»he glass I 



22 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

What took place during the rest of the evening had better 
be described by Mr. Pogson himself, who has given us permis- 
sion to publish his letter. — 

" Qidllacq's Hotel {pronounced Killyax), Calais. 

" Dear Tit,— I arrived at Cally, as they call it, this day, or, rather, yesterday, 
for it is past midnight, as I sit thinking of a wonderful adventure that has just be- 
fallen me. A woman, in course ; that's always the case with me, you know : but oh, 
Tit ! if you could but see her I Of the first family in France, the Florval-Delvalsj 
beautiful as an angel, and no more caring for money than I do for split peas. 

" I'll tell you how it occurred. Everybody in France, you know, dines at the or- 
dinary — it's quite distangy to do so. There was only three of us to-day, however,— 
the Baroness, me, and a gent, who never spoke a word ; and we didn't want him to, 
neither : do you mark that ? 

" You know my way with the women : champagne's the thing ; make 'em drink, 
make 'em talk ; — make 'em talk, make 'em do anything. So I orders a bottle, as if 
for myself ; and, ' Ma'am,' says I, 'will you take a glass of Sham— just one ? ' Take 
it she did— for you know it's quite distangy here : everybody dmes at Xh^tablede hole, 
and everybody accepts everybody's wine. Bob Irons, who travels in linen on our cir- 
cuit, told me he had made some slap-up acquaintances among the genteelest people at 
Paris, nothing but by offering them Sham. 

" Well, my Baroness takes one glass, two glasses, three glasses— the old fellow 
goes — we have a deal of chat (she took me for a military man, she said : is it not 
singular that so many people should?), and by ten o'clock we had grown so intimate, 
that I had from her her whole history, knew where she came from, and where she was 
going. Leave me alone with 'em ; I can find out any woman's history in half an 
hour. 

" And where do you think she is going "i to Paris to be sure : she has her seat in 
what they call the coopy (though you're not near so cooped in it as in our coaches. 
I've been to the office and seen one of 'em). She has her place in the coopy, and the 
coopy holds three ; so what does Sam Pogson do ? — he goes and takes the other two. 
Ain't I up to a thing or two ? Oh, no, not the least ; but I shall have her to myself 
the whole of the way. 

" We shall be in the French metropolis the day after this reaches you ; please 
look out for a handsome lodging for me, and never mind the expense. And I say, if 
you could, in her hearing, when you come down to the coach, call me Captain Pogson, 
I wish you would — it sounds well travelling, you know ; and when she asked me if I 
was not an officer, I couldn't say no. Adieu, then, my dear fellow, till Monday, and 
vive le joy, as they say. The Baroness says I speak French charmingly, she talks 
English as well as you or I. 

" Your affectionate friend, 

*• S. Pogson." 

This letter reached us duly, in our garrets, and we engaged 
such an apartment for Mr. Pogson, as beseemed a gentleman 
of his rank in the world and in the army. At the appointed 
hour, too, we repaired to the Diligence ofhce, and there be- 
held the arrival of the machine which contained him and his 
lovely Baroness. 

Those who have much frequented the society of gentlemen 
of his profession (and what more delightful .?) must be aware, 
that, when all the rest of mankind look hideous, dirty, peevish, 
wretched, after a forty hours' coach-journey, a bagman appears 
^s gay and spruce as when he started j having within himself 



A CA UTION TO TRA VELLERS. 



23 



a thousand little conveniences for the voyage, which common 
travellers neglect. Pogson had a little portable toilet, of which 
he had not failed to take advantage, and with his long, curling, 
flaxen hair, flowing under a seal-skin cap, with a gold tassel, 
with a blue and gold satin handkerchief, a crimson velvet waist- 
coat, a light-green cut-away coat, a pair of barred brickdust- 
colored pantaloons, and a neat mackintosh, presented alto- 
gether, as elegant and distingue an appearance as any one could 
desire. He had put on a clean collar at breakfast, and a pair 
of white kids as he entered the barrier, and looked, as he 
rushed into my arms, more like a man stepping out of a band- 
box, than one descending from a vehicle that has just performed 
one of the laziest, dullest, flattest, stalest, dirtiest journeys in 
Europe. 

To my surprise, there were two ladies in the coach with my 
friend, and not ofie, as I had expected. One of these, a stout 
female, carrying sundry baskets, bags, umbrellas, and woman's 
wraps, was evidently a maid-servant ; the other, in black, was 
Pogson's fair one, evidently. I could see a gleam of curl-pa- 
pers over a sallow face, — of a dusky nightcap flapping over the 
curl-papers, — but these were hjdden by a lace veil and a huge 
velvet bonnet, of which the crowning birds of paradise were 
evidently in a moulting state. She was encased in many shawls 
and wrappers ; she put, hesitatingly, a pretty little foot out of 
the carriage — Pogson was by her side in an instant, and gal- 
lantly putting one of his white kids round her waist, aided this 
interesting creature to descend. I saw, by her walk, that she 
was five-and-forty, and that my little Pogson was a lost man. 

After some brief parley between them — in which it was 
charming to hear how my friend Samuel would speak, what he 
called French, to a lady who could not understand one syl- 
lable of his jargon — the mutual hackney-coaches drew up ; 
Madame la Baronne waved to the Captain a graceful French 
curtsey. " Adyow ! " said Samuel, and waved his lily hand. 
* ''Adyou-addimang. ' ' 

A brisk little gentleman, who had made the journey in the 
same coach with Pogson, but had more modestly taken a seat 
in the Imperial, here passed us, and greeted me with a " How 
d'ye do t " He had shouldered his own little valise, and was 
trudging off, scattering a cloud of co??t?nisi'ionaires, who would 
fain have spared him the trouble. 

" Do you know that chap ? " says Pogson ; " surly fellow, 
ain't he .? " 

"The kindest man in existence," answered I; "all the 
world knows little Major British." 



94 



The PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 



*' He s a Major, is he ? — why, that's the fellow that dined 
with us at Killyax's ; it's lucky I did not call myself Captain 
before him, he mightn't have liked it, you know : " and then 
Sam fell into a reverie ; what was the subject of his thoughts 
soon appeared. 

" Did you ever see such a foot and ankle ? " said Sam, after 
sitting for some time, regardless of the novelty of the scene, his 
hands in his pockets, plunged in the deepest thought. 

" IsiiU she a slap-up woman, eh, now ? " pursued he ; and 
began enumerating her attractions, as a horse-jockey would the 
points of a favorite animal. 

" You seem to have gone a pretty length already," said I, 
" by promising to visit her to-morrow." 

" A good length ? — I believe you. Leave me alone for 
that." 

" But I thought you were only to be two in the coupe^ you 
wicked rogue." 

" Two in the coopy ? Oh ! ah ! yes, you know — why, that is, 
I didn't know she had her maid with her (what an ass I was to 
think of a noblewoman travelling without one !) and couldn't, 
in course, refuse, when she asked me to let the maid in." 

" Of course not." 

" Couldn't, you know, as a man of honor ; but I made up 
for all that," said Pogson, winking slyly, and putting his hand 
to his little bunch of a nose, in a very knowing way. 

" You did, and how t " 

" Why, you dog, I sat next to her ; sat in the middle the 
whole way, and my back's half broke, I can tell you : " and 
thus, having depicted his happiness, we soon reached the inn 
where this back-broken young man was to lodge during his stay 
in Paris. 

The next day, at five, we met ; Mr. Pogson had seen his 
Baroness, and described her lodgings, in his own expressive 
way, as *' slap-up." She had received him quite like an old 
friend ; treated him to eau sucree, of which beverage he ex- 
pressed himself a great admirer ; and actually asked him to 
dine the next day. But there was a cloud over the ingenuous 
youth's brow, and I inquired still farther. 

'' Why," said he, with a sigh, " I thought she was a widow ; 
and, hang it ! who should come in but her husband the Baron : 
a big fellow, sir, with a blue coat, a red ribbing, and such a pair 
of mustaches ! " 

" Well," said I, " he didn't turn you out, I suppose ? " 

" Oh, no ! on the contrary, as kind as possible ; his lordship 



A CAUTION TO TRAVELLERS. «5 

said that he respected the English army ; asked me what corps 
I was in, — said he had fought in Spain against us, — and made 
me welcome." 

" What could you want more ? " 

Mr. Pogson at this only whistled ; and if some very pro- 
found observer of human nature had been there to read into 
this little bagman's heart, it would, perhaps, have been mani- 
fest, that the appearance of a whiskered soldier of a husband 
had counteracted some plans that the young scoundrel was 
concocting. 

I live up a hundred and thirty-seven steps in the remote 
quarter of the Luxembourg, and it is not to be expected that 
such a fashionable fellow as Sam Pogson, with his pockets full 
of money, and a new city to see, should be always wandering 
to my dull quarters ; so that, although he did not make his 
appearance for some time, he must not be accused of any luke- 
warmness of friendship on that score. 

He was out, too, when I called at his hotel ; but once, I had 
the good fortune to see him, with his hat curiously on one side^ 
looking as pleased as Punch, and being driven, in an open cab, 
in the Champs Elysees. " That'3 another tip-top chap," said he, 
when we met, at length. " What do you think of an Earl's son, 
my boy ? Honorable Tom Ringwood, son of the Earl of Cinq- 
bars : what do you think of that, eh t " 

I thought he was getting into very good society. Sam was 
a dashing fellow, and was always above his own line of life ; he 
had met Mr. Ringwood at the Baron's, and they'd been to the 
play together ; and the honorable gent, as Sam called him, had 
joked with him about being well to do /;/ a certain quarter ,■ and 
he had had a game of billiards with the Baron, at the Esta?ni?iy, 
" a very distangy place, where you smoke," said Sam ; " quite 
select, and frequented by the tip-top nobility ; " and they were 
as thick as peas in a shell ; and they were to dine that day at 
Ringwood's, and sup, the next night, with the Baroness. 

" I think the chaps down the road will stare," said Sam, 
" when they hear how I've been coming it." And stare, no 
doubt, they would ; for it is certain that very few commercial 
gentlemen have had Mr. Pogson's advantages. 

The next morning we had made an arrangement to go out 
shopping together, and to purchase some articles of female 
gear, that Sam intended to bestow on his relations when he 
returned. Seven needle-books, for his sisters j a gilt buckle, 
for his mamma ; a handsome French cashmere shawl and bon- 
net, for his aunt (the old lady keeps an inn in the Borough 



2& THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

and has plenty of money, and no heirs) ; and a tooth-pick case, 
for his father. Sam is a good fellow to all his relations, 
and as for his aunt, he adores her. Well, we were to go and 
make these purchases, and I arrived punctually at my time ; 
but Sam was stretched on a sofa, very pale and dismal. 

I saw how it had been. — " A little too much of Mr. Ring- 
wood's claret, I suppose ? " 

He only gave a sickly stare, 

" Where does the Honorable Tom live } " says I. 

^^ Honorable !^' says Sam, with a hollow, horrid laugh; "I 
tell you. Tit, he's no more Honorable than you are." 

" What, an impostor ? " 

" No, no ; not that. He is a real Honorable, only — 

" Oh, ho ! I smell a rat — a little jealous, eh ? " 

"Jealousy be hanged! I tell you he's a thief; and the 
Baron's a thief; and hang me, if I think his wife is any better. 
Eight-and-thirty pounds he won of me before supper; and 
made me drunk and sent me home : — is ///^/honorable ? How 
can I afford to lose forty pounds ? It's took me two years to 
save it up : — if my old aunt gets wind of it, she'll cut me off 
with a shilling : hang me ! " — and here Sam, in an agony, tore 
his fair hair. 

While bewailing his lot in this lamentable strain, his bell 
was rung, which signal being answered by a surly " Come in," 
a tall, very fashionable gentleman, with a fur coat, and a fierce 
tuft to his chin, entered the room. " Pogson my buck, how 
goes it ? " said he, familiarly, and gave a stare at me : I was 
making for my hat. 

" Don't go," said Sam, rather eagerly ; and I sat down again. 

The Honorable Mr. Ringwood hummed and ha'd : and, at 
last, said he wished to speak to Mr. Pogson on business, in 
private, if possible. 

" There's no secrets betwixt me and my friend," cried Sam. 

Mr. Ringwood paused a little: — "An awkward business 
that of last night," at length exclaimed he. 

" I believe it was an awkward business," said Sam, dryly. 

" I really am very sorry for your losses." 

" Thank you : and so am I, / can tell you, said Sam. 

"You must mind, my good fellow, and not drink ; for when 
you drink, you will play high : by Gad, you led us in, and not 
we you." 

" I dare say," answered Sam, with something of peevishness ; 
"losses is losses : there's no use talking about 'en? when they're 
over and paid. 



A CAUTION- TO TRAVELLERS. ij 

" And paid ? " here wonderingly spoke Mr. Ringwood ; " why, 
my dear fel— what the deuce — has Florval been with you ? " 

" D — Florval ! " growled Sam, " I've never set eyes on his 
face since last night ; and never wish to see him again." 

" Come, come, enough of this talk ; how do you intend to 
settle the bills which you gave him last night ? " 

" Bills ! what do you mean ? " 

" I mean, sir, these bills," said the honorable Tom, produ- 
cing two out of his pocket-book, and looking as stern as a lion. 
" * I promise to pay on demand, to the Baron de Florval, the 
sum of four hundred pounds. October 20, 1838.' ' Ten days 
after date I promise to pay the Baron de et caetera et caetera, 
one hundred and ninety-eight pounds. Samuel Pogson.' You 
didn't say what regiment you were in." 

" What ! " shouted poor Sam, from a dream, starting up 
and looking preternaturally pale and hideous. 

" D — it, sir, you don't affect ignorance : you don't pretend 
not to remember that you signed these bills, for money lost in 
my rooms : money /en^ to you, by Madame de Florval, at your 
own request, and lost to her husband } You don't suppose, 
sir, that I shall be such an infernal idiot as to believe you, or 
such a coward as to put up wifh a mean subterfuge of this sort. 
Will you, or will you not pay the money, sir ? " 

"I will not," said Sam, stoutly; " it's a d — d swin — " 

Here Mr. Ringwood sprung up, clenching his riding-whip, 
and looking so fierce that Sam and I bounded back to the other 
end of the room. "Utter that word again, and, by heaven, I'll 
murder you ! " shouted Mr. Ringwood, and looked as if he 
would, too: "once more, will you. or will you not, pay this 
money } " 

" I can't," said Sam, faintly. 

" I'll call again. Captain Pogson," said Mr. Ringwood, " I'll 
call again in one hour ; and, unless you come to some arrange- 
ment, you must meet my friend, the Baron de Florval, or I'll 
post you for a swindler and a coward." With this he went out : 
the door thundered to after him, and when the clink of his 
steps departing had subsided, I was enabled to look round at 
Pog. The poor little man had his elbows on the marble table, 
his head between his hands, and looked, as one has seen gentle- 
men look over a steam-vessel off Ramsgate, the wind blowing 
remarkably fresh : at last he fairly burst out crying. 

" If Mrs. Pogson heard of this," said I, " what would be- 
come of the ' Three Tuns ? ' " (for I wished to give him a les- 
son). " If your Ma, who took you every Sunday to meeting, 



2S THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

should know that her boy was paying attention to married 
women ; — if Drench, Glauber and Co., your employers, were to 
know that their confidential agent was a gambler, and unfit to 
be trusted with their money, how long do you think your con* 
nection would last with them, and who would afterwards employ 
you ? " 

To this poor Pog had not a word of answer ; but sat on his 
sofa whimpering so bitterly, that the sternest of moralists would 
have relented towards him, and would have been touched by 
the little wretch's tears. Everything, too, must be pleaded in 
excuse for this unfortunate bagman : who, if he wished to pass 
for a captain, had only done so because he had an intense 
respect and longing for rank : if he had made love to the 
Baroness, had only done so because he was given to under- 
stand by Lord Byron's " Don Juan " that making love was a 
very correct, natty thing : and if he had gambled, had only been 
induced to do so by the bright eyes and example of the Baron 
and the Baroness. O ye Barons and Baronesses of England ! 
if ye knew what a number of small commoners are daily occu- 
pied in studying your lives, and imitating your aristocratic 
ways, how careful would ye be of your morals, manners, and 
conversation ! 

My soul was filled, then, with a gentle yearning pity for Pog- 
son, and revolved many plans for his rescue : none of these 
seeming to be practicable, at last we hit on the very wisest of 
all, and determined to apply for counsel to no less a person 
than Major British. 

A blessing it is to be acquainted with my worthy friend, little 
Major British ; and heaven, sure, it was that put the Major into 
my head, when I heard of this awkward scrape of poor Pog's. 
The Major is on half-pay, and occupies a modest apartment au 
qiiatrieme^ in the very hotel which Pogson had patronized at my 
suggestion ; indeed, I had chosen it from Major British's own 
peculiar recommendation. 

There is no better guide to follow than such a character as 
the honest Major, of whom there are many likenesses now scat- 
tered over the continent of Europe : men who love to live well, 
and are forced to live cheaply, and who find the English abroad 
a thousand times easier, merrier, and more hospitable than the 
same persons at home. I, for my part, never landed on Calais 
pier without feeling that a load of sorrows was left on the other 
side of the water ; and have always fancied that black care 
stepped on board the steamer, along with the custom-house 
officers, at Gravesend, and accompanied one to yonder black 
louring towers of London — so busy, so dismal, and so vast. 



A CAUTION TO TRAVELLEkS, 29 

British would have cut any foreigner's throat who ventured 
to say so much, but entertained, no doubt, private sentiments 
of this nature ; for he passed eight months of the year, regularly, 
abroad, with head-quarters at Paris (the garrets before alluded 
to), and only went to England for the month's shooting, on the 
grounds of his old colonel, now an old lord, of whose acquaint- 
ance the Major was passably inclined to boast. 

He loved and respected, like a good staunch Tory as he is, 
every one of the English nobility ; gave himself certain little airs 
of a man of fashion, that were by no means disagreeable ; and 
was, indeed, kindly regarded by such English aristocracy as he 
met, in his little annual tours among the German courts, in Italy 
or in Paris, where he never missed an ambassador's night : he 
retailed to us, who didn't go, but were delighted to know all 
that had taken place, accurate accounts of the dishes, the 
dresses, and the scandal which had there fallen under his 
observation. 

He is, moreover, one of the most useful persons in society 
that can possibly be ; for besides being incorrigibly duelsome on 
his own account, he is, for others, the most acute and peaceable 
counsellor in the world, and has carried more friends through 
scrapes and prevented more deaths than any member of the 
Humane Society. British never bought a single step in the 
army, as is well known. In '14 he killed a celebrated French 
fire-eater, who had slain a young friend of his, and living, as he 
does, a great deal with young men of pleasure, and good old 
sober family people, he is loved by them both, and has as wel- 
come a place made for him at a roaring bachelor's supper at 
the " Caf^ Anglais," as at a staid dowager's dinner-table in the 
Faubourg St. Honor^. Such pleasant old boys are very profit- 
able acquaintances, let me tell you ; and lucky is the young man 
who has one or two such friends in his list. 

Hurrying on Pogson in his dress, I conducted him, panting, 
up to the Major's quatrieme, where we were cheerfully bidden 
to come in. The little gentleman was in his travelling jacket, 
and occupied in painting, elegantly, one of those natty pairs of 
boots in which he daily promenaded the Boulevards. A couple 
of pairs of tough buff gloves had been undergoing some pipe- 
claying operation under his hands ; no man stepped out so' 
spick and span, with a hat so nicely brushed, with a stiff cravat 
tied so neatly under a fat little red face, with a blue frock-coat 
so scrupulously fitted to a punchy little person, as Major British, 
about whom we have written these two pages. He stared 
rather hardly at my companion, but gave me a kind shake of 



z^ 



THE PARIS SKETCH ^OOJC, 



the hand, and we proceeded at once to business. "Major 
British," said I, " we want your advice in regard to an unpleas- 
ant affair which has just occurred to my friend Pogson.'* 

" Pogson, take a chair." 

" You must know, sir, that Mr. Pogson, coming from Calais 
the other day, encountered, in the diligence, a very handsome 
woman." 

British winked at Pogson, who, wretched as he was, could 
not help feeling pleased. 

" Mr. Pogson was not more pleased with this lovely crea- 
ture than was she with him ; for, it appears, she gave him her 
card, invited him to her house, where he has been constantly, 
and has been received with much kindness." 

"I see," says British. 

" Her husband the Baron " 

'"'' Now it's coming," said the Major, with a grin: "her 
husband is jealous, I suppose, and there is a talk of the Bois 
de Boulogne : my dear sir, you can't refuse — can't refuse." 

" It's not that," said Pogson, wagging his head passionately. 

" Her husband the Baron seemed quite as much taken with 
Pogson as his lady was, and has introduced him to some very 
distifigne friends of his own set. Last night one of the Baron's 
friends gave a party in honor of my friend Pogson, who lost 
forty-eight pounds at cards before he was made drunk, and 
heaven knows how much after." 

" Not a shilling, by sacred heaven ! — not a shilling," yelled 
out Pogson. " After the supper I 'ad such an 'eadache, I 
couldn't do anything but fall asleep on the sofa." 

" You 'ad such an 'eadach', sir," says British, sternly, who 
piques himself on his grammar and pronunciation, and scorns 
a cockney. 

" Such a //-eadache, sir," replied Pogson, with much meek- 
ness. 

" The unfortunate man is brought home at two o'clock, as 
tipsy as possible, dragged up stairs, senseless, to bed, and, on 
waking, receives a visit from his entertainer of the night before 
— a lord's son. Major, a tip-top fellow,— who brings a couple of 
bills that my friend Pogson is said to have signed." 

" Well, my dear fellow, the thing's quite simple — he must 
pay them." 

" I can't pay them." 

" He can't pay them," said we both in a breath : " Pogson 
is a commercial traveller, with thirty shillings a week, and how 
the deuce is he to pay five hundred pounds .? " 



A CAUTION TO TRAVELLERS. 



31 



" A bagman, sir ! and what right has a bagman to gamble ? 
Gentlemen gamble, sir ; tradesmen, sir, have no business with 
the amusements of the gentry. What business had you with 
barons and lords' sons, sir ? — serve you right, sir." 

" Sir,*' says Pogson, with some dignity, " merit, and not 
birth, is the criterion of a man : I despise an hereditary aris 
tocracy, and admire only Nature's gentlemen. For my part, 
I think that a British merch " 

" Hold your tongue, sir," bounced out the Major, " and 
don't lecture me ; don't come to me, sir, with your slang about 
Nature's gentlemen — Nature's tomfools, sir ! Did Nature open 
a cash account for you at a banker's, sir ? Did Nature give 
you an education, sir ? What do you mean by competing with 
people to whom Nature has given all these things ? Stick to 
your bags, Mr. Pogson, and your bagmen, and leave barons 
and their like to their own ways." 

" Yes, but, Major," here cried that faithful friend, who has 
always stood by Pogson ; " they won't leave him alone." 

" The honorable gent says I must fight if I don't pay," 
whimpered Sam. 

" What ! ^ght you 1 Do you mean that the honorable gent, 
as you call him, will go out with a bagman ? " 

" He doesn't know I'm a^— I'm a commercial man," blush- 
ingly said Sam : "he fancies I'm a military gent." 

The Major's gravity was quite upset at this absurd notion ; 
and he laughed outrageously. " Why, the fact is, sir," said I, 
" that my friend Pogson, knowing the vsriue of the title of Cap- 
tain, and being complimented by the Baroness on his warlike 
appearance, said, boldly, he was in the army. He only assumed 
the rank to dazzle her weak imagination, never fancying that 
there was a husband, and a circle of friends, with whom he was 
afterwards to make an acquaintance ; and then, you know, it 
was too late to withdraw." 

" A pretty pickle you have put yourself in, Mr. Pogson, by 
making love to other men's wives, and calling yourself names," 
said the Major, who was restored to good-humor. "And pray, 
who is the /honorable gent ? " 

" The Earl of Cinqbars' son," says Pogson, " the Honorable 
Tom Ringwood." 

" I thought it was some such character: and the Baron is 
the Baron de Florval-Delval .? " 

"The very same.' 

" And his wife a black -haired woman, with a pretty foot and 
ankle ; calls herself Athenais ; and is always talking about her 



2 2 THE PARIS SKE TCH BOOK. 

trente-deux ans ? Why, sir, that woman was an actress on the 
Boulevard, when we were here in '15. She's no more his wife 
than I am. Delval's name is Chicot. The woman is always 
travelling between London and Paris : I saw she was hooking 
you at Calais ; she has hooked ten men, in the course of the last 
two years, in this very way. She lent you money, didn't she ? " 
"Yes." "And she leans on your shoulder, and whispers, 
' Play half for me,^ and somebody wins it, and the poor thing 
is as sorry as you are, and her husband storms and rages, and 
insists on double stakes ; and she leans over your shoulder 
again, and tells every card in your hand to your adversary, and 
that's the way it's done, Mr. Pogson." 

" I've been 'ad, I see I 'ave," said Pogson, very humbly. 

" Well, sir," said the Major, " in consideration, not of you, 
sir — for, give me leave to tell you, Mr. Pogson, that you are 
a pitiful little scoundrel — in consideration for my Lord Cinq- 
bars, sir, with whom, I am proud to say, I am intimate," (the 
Major dearly loved a lord, and was, by his own showing, ac- 
quainted with half the peerage,) " I will aid you in this affair. 
Your cursed vanity, sir, and want of principle, has set you, 
in the first place, intriguing with other men's wives ; and if 
you had been shot for your pains, a bullet would have only 
served you right, sir. You must go about as an impostor, sir, 
in society ; and you pay richly for your swindling, sir, by being 
swindled yourself : but, as I think your punishment has been 
already pretty severe, I shall do my best, out of regard for my 
friend, Lord Cinqbars,*to prevent the matter going any farther; 
and I recommend you to leave Paris without delay. Now let 
me wish you a good-morning." — Wherewith British made a 
majestic bow, and began giving the last touch to his varnished 
boots. 

We departed : poor Sam perfectly silent and chopfallen ; 
and I meditating on the wisdom of the half-pay philosopher, 
and wondering what means he would employ to rescue Pogson 
from his fate. 

What these means were I knew not ; but Mr. Ringwood did 
not make his appearance at six ; and, at eight, a letter arrived 
for " Mr. Pogson, commercial traveller," &c., &c. It was blank 
inside, but contained his two bills. Mr. Ringwood left town, 
almost immediately, for Vienna ; nor did the Major explain the 
circumstances which caused his departure ; but he muttered 
something about "knew some of his old tricks, threatened 
police, and made him disgorge directly." 

Mr. Ringwood is, as yet, young at his trade ; and I hav© 



THE FE TES OF JUL V. 33 

often thought it was very green of him to give up the bills to 
the Major, who, certainly, would never have pressed the matter 
before the police, out of respect for his friend, Lord Cinqbars. 



TITjS fetes of JULY. 

IN A LETTER TO THE EDITOR OF THE " BUNGAY BEACON." 

Paris ^ July 2,0th, 1839. 

We have arrived here just in time for the fetes of July. — • 
You have read, no doubt, of that glorious revolution which 
took place here nine years ago, and which is now commem- 
orated annually, in a pretty facetious manner, by gun-firing, stu- 
dent-processions, pole-climbing for silver spoons, gold watches 
and legs of mutton, monarchical orations, and what not, and 
sanctioned, moreover, by Chamber of Deputies, with a grant of 
a couple of hundred thousand francs to defray the expenses of 
all the crackers, gun-firings, and legs of mutton aforesaid. 
There is a new fountain in the Place Louis Quinze, otherwise 
called the Place Louis Seize, or else the Place de la Revolu- 
tion, or else the Place de la Concorde (who can say why ?) — 
which, I am told, is to run bad wine during certain hours to- 
morrow, and there would have been a review of the National 
Guards and the Line — only, since the Fieschi business, reviews 
are no joke, and so this latter part of the festivity has been 
discontinued. 

Do you not laugh, O Pharos of Bungay, at the continuance 
of a humbug such as this ? — at the humbugging anniversary of 
a humbug ? The King of the Barricades is, next to the Em- 
peror Nicholas, the most absolute Sovereign in Europe ; yet 
there is not in the whole of this fair kingdom of France a sin- 
gle man who cares sixpence about him, or his dynasty : except, 
mayhap, a few hangers-on at the Chateau, who eat his dinners, 
and put their hands in his purse. The feeling of loyalty is as 
dead as old Charles the Tenth ; the Chambers have been 
laughed at, the country has been laughed at, all the successive 
ministries have been laughed at (and you know who is the wag 
that has amused himself with them all) ; and, behold, here 
come three days at the end of July, and cannons think it 
ne^cessary to fire off, squibs and crackers to blaze and fizz, foun- 

3 



34 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

tains to run wine, kings to make speeclies, and subjects to 
crawl up greasy mats-de-cocagne in token of gratitude and 
rejouissance publique I — My dear sir, in their aptitude to swallow, 
to utter, to enact humbugs, these French people, from Majesty 
downwards, beat all the other nations of this earth. In looking 
at these men, their manners, dresses, ojDinions, politics, actions, 
history, it is impossibre to preserve a grave countenance ; in- 
stead of having Carlyle to write a History of the French Revo- 
lution, I often think it should be handed over to Dickens or 
Theodore Hook : and oh ! where is the Rabelais to be the 
faithful historian of the last phase of the Revolution — the last 
glorious nine years of which we are now commemorating the 
last glorious three days ? 

I had made a vow not to say a syllable on the subject, al- 
though I have seen, with my neighbors, all the ginger-bread 
stalls down the Champs El3^sees, and some- of the "cata- 
falques " erected to the memory of the heroes of July, where the 
students and others, not connected personally with the victims, 
and not having in the least profited by their deaths, come 
and weep ; but the grief shown on the first day is quite as ab- 
surd and fictitious as the joy exhibited on the last. The sub- 
ject is one which admits of much wholesome reflection and 
food for mirth ; and, besides, is so richly treated by the French 
themselves, that it would be a sin and a shame to pass it over. 
Allow me to have the honor of translating, for your edification, 
an account of the first day's proceedings — it is mighty amusing, 
to my thinking. 

CELEBRATION OF THE DAYS OF JULY. 

*' To-day (Saturday), funeral ceremonies, in honor of the 
victims of July, were held in the various edifices consecrated 
to public worship. 

"These edifices, with the exception of some churches 
(especially that of the Petits-Peres), were uniformly hung with 
black on the outside ; the hangings bore only this inscription : 
27, 28, 29 July, 1830 — surrounded by a wreath of oak-leaves. 

"In the interior of the Catholic churches, it had only- been 
thought proper to dress little catafalques^ as for burials of the 
third and fourth class. Very few clergy attended ; but a con- 
siderable number of the National Guard. 

" The Synagogue of the Israelites was entirely hung with 
black ; and 'a great concourse of people attended. The service 
was performed with the greatest pomp. 



THE FETES OF JULY. 3^ 

" In the Protestant temples there was likewise a very full 
attendance : apologetical discourses on the Revolution of July 
were pronounced by the pastors. 

" The absence of M. de Que'len (Archbishop of Paris), and 
of many members of the superior clergy, was remarked at 
Notre Dame. 

" The civil authorities attended service in their several 
districts. 

" The poles, ornamented with tri-colored flags, which for- 
merly were placed on Notre Dame, were, it was remarked, 
suppressed. The flags on the Pont Neuf were, during the 
ceremony, only half-mast high, and covered with crape." 

Et caetera, et caetera, et caetera. 

" The tombs of the Louvre were covered with black hang- 
ings, and adorned with tri-colored flags. In front and in the 
middle was erected an expiatory monument of a pyramidical 
shape, and surmounted by a funeral vase. 

" These tombs wei-e guarded' by the Municipal Guard, the 
Troops of the Line, the Sergens de Ville {town patrol)^ 
AND A Brigade of Agents of Police in plain clothes, 
under the orders of peace-ofiftcer^Vassal. 

" Between eleven and twelve o'clock, some young men, to 
the number of 400 or 500, assembled on the Place de la 
Bourse, one of them bearing a tri-colored banner with an in- 
scription, ' To the Manes of July : ' ranging themselves in 
order, they marched five abreast to the Marche des Innocens. 
On their arrival, the Municipal Guards of the Halle aux Draps, 
where the post had been doubled, issued out without arms, and 
the town-sergeants placed themselves before the market to pre- 
vent the entry of the procession. The young men passed in 
perfect order, and without saying a word — only lifting their 
hats as they defiled before the tombs. When they arrived at 
the Louvre they found the gates shut, and the garden evacu- 
ated. The troops were under arms, and formed in battalion. 

" After the passage .of the procession, the Garden was again 
open to the public." 

And the evening and the morning were the first day. 

There's nothing serious in mortality ; is there, from the 
beginning of this account to the end thereof, aught but sheer, 
open, monstrous, undisguised humbug ? I said, before, that 
you should have a history of these people by Dickens or Theo- 
dore Hook, but there is little need of professed wags ; — do not 
the men write their own tale with an admirable Sancho-like 
gravity and naivete, which one could not desire improved? 



^6 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

How good is that touch of sly indignation about the little cata^ 
f cliques / how rich the contrast presented by the economy of 
the Catholics to the splendid disregard of expense exhibited 
by the devout Jews ! and how touching the " apologdical dis^ 
courses on the Revolution." delivered by the Protestant pas- 
tors ! Fancy the profound affliction of the Gardes Municipaux, 
the Sergens de Ville, the police agents in plain clothes, and 
the troops with fixed bayonets, sobbing round the " expiatory 
monuments of a pyramidical shape, surmounted by funeral 
vases," and compelled, by sad duty, to fire into the public who 
might wish to indulge in the same woe ! O " manes of July ! " 
(the phrase is pretty and grammatical) why did you with sharp 
bullets break those Louvre windows ? Why did you bayonet 
red-coated Swiss behind that fair white facade, and, braving 
cannon, musket, sabre, perspective guillotine, burst yonder 
bronze gates, rush through that peaceful picture-gallery, and 
hurl royalty, loyalty, and a thousand years of Kings, head-over- 
heels out of yonder Tuileries' windows ? 

It is, you will allow, a little difficult to say : — there is, how- 
ever, one benefit that the country has gained (as for liberty of 
press, or person, diminished taxation, a juster representation, 
who ever thinks of them ?) — one benefit they have gained, or 
nearly — abolition de la peine-de-7nort pour delit politique : no more 
wicket guillotining for revolutions. A Frenchman must have 
his revolution — it is his nature to knock down omnibuses in the 
street, and across them to fire at troops of the line — it is a sin 
to baulk it. Did not the King send off Revolutionary Prince 
Napoleon in a coach-and-four ? Did not the jury, before the 
face of God and Justice, proclaim Revolutionary Colonel Vau- 
drey not guilty ? — One may hope, soon, that if a man shows 
decent courage and energy in half-a-dozen emeutes^ he will get 
promotion and a premium. 

I do not (although, perhaps, partial to the subject,) want to 
talk more nonsense than the occasion warrants, and will pray 
you to cast your eyes over the followin-g anecdote, that is now 
going the round of the papers, and respects the commutation 
of the punishment of that wretched, foolhardy Barbes, who, on 
his trial, seemed to invite the penalty which has just been 
remitted to him. You recollect the braggart's speech : "When 
the Indian falls into the power of the enemy, he knows the fate 
that awaits him, and submits his head to the knife : — /am the 
Indian ! " 

'« Well " 

*' M. Hugo was at the Opera on the night the sentence of 



THE FETES OF JULY. 37 

the Court of Peers, condemning Barbes to death, was pubUshed. 
The great poet composed the following verses : — 

*' ' Par votre ange envolee, ainsi qu'une colombe, 
Par le royal enfant, doiix et frele roseau, 
Grace encore une fois ! Grace au nom de la tombe , 
Grace au nom du bergeau ! ' * 

" M. Victor Hugo wrote the lines out instantly on a sheet 
of paper, which he folded, and simply despatched them to the 
King of the French by the penny-post. 

" That truly is a noble voice, which can at all hours thus 
speak to the throne. Poetry, in old days, was called the lan- 
guage of the Gods — it is better named now — it is the language 
of the Kings. 

" But the clemency of the King had anticipated the letter 
of the Poet. His Majesty had signed the commutation of 
Barbes, while the poet was still writing. 

" Louis Philippe replied to the author of ' Ruy Bias ' most 
graciously, that he had already subscribed to a wdsh so noble, 
and that the verses had only confirmed his previous disposition 
to mercy." 

Now in countries where fools most abound, did one ever 
read of more monstrous, palpable folly ? In any country, save 
this, would a poet who chose to write four crack-brained verses, 
comparing an angel to a dove, and a little boy to a reed, and 
calling upon the chief magistrate, in the name of the angel, or 
dove (the Princess Mary), in her tomb, and the little infant in 
his cradle, to spare a criminal, have received a " gracious an- 
swer " to his nonsense 1 Would he have ever despatched the 
nonsense ? and would any journalist have been silly enough to 
talk of " the noble voice that could thus speak to the throne," 
and the noble throne that could return such a noble answer to 
the noble voice ? You get nothing done here gravely and de- 
cently. Tawdry stage tricks are played, and braggadocio clap- 
traps uttered, on every occasion, however sacred or solemn : in 
the face of death, as by Barbes with his hideous Indian meta- 
phor ; m the teeth of reason, as by M. Victor Hugo with his 
twopenny-post poetry ; and of justice, as by the King's absurd 
reply to his absurd demand ! Suppose the Count of Paris to 

* Translated for the benefit of country gentlemen: — 

" By your angel flown away just like a dove, 

By the royal infant, that frail and tender reed, 

Pardon yet once more ! Pardon in the name of the tomb I 

Pardon in the name of the cradle 1 " 



38 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

be twenty times a reed, and the Princess Mary a host of angels, 
is that any reason why the law should not have its course ? 
Justice is the God of our lower world, our great omnipresent 
guardian : as such it moves, or should move on, majestic, awful, 
irresistible, having no passions — like a God : but, in the very 
midst of the path across which it is to pass, lo ! M. Victor Hugo 
trips forward, smirking, and says, O divine Justice ! I will 
trouble you to listen to the following trifling effusion of mine : — 

" Par voire ange envolee, ainsi gu'une,^' &r>c. 

Awful Justice stops, and, bowing gravely, listens to M. 
Hugo's verses, and, with true French politeness, says, " Mon 
cher Monsieur, these verses are charming, ravissans, delicieiix, 
and, coming from such a celebrite litterah'C as yourself, shall 
meet with every possible attention — in fact, had I required any- 
thing to confirm my own previous opinions, this charming poem 
would have done so. Bon jour, mon cher Monsieur Hugo, au 
revoir ! " — and they part : — Justice taking off his hat and bow- 
ing, and the Author of " Ruy Bias " quite convinced that he has 
been treating with him d'egal en egal. I can hardly bring my 
mind to fancy that anything is serious in France — it seems to 
be all rant, tinsel, and stage-play. Sham liberty, sham mon- 
archy, sham glory, sham justice, — ou diable done la verite va-t-elle 
se nicher ? 

* # * * # 

The last rocket of the fete of July has just mounted, explo- 
ded, made a portentous bang, and emitted a gorgeous show of 
blue-lights, and then (like many reputations) disappeared to- 
tally : the hundredth gun on the Invalid terrace has uttered its 
last roar — and a great comfort it is for eyes and ears that the 
festival is over. We shall be able to go about our every-day 
business again, and not be hustled by the gendarmes or the 
crowd. 

The sight which I have just come away from is as brilliant, 
happy, and beautiful as can be conceived ; and if you want to 
see French people to the greatest advantage, you should go to 
a festival like this, where their manners, and innocent gayety, 
show a very pleasing contrast to the coarse and vulgar hilarity 
which the same class would exhibit in our own country — at 
Epsom racecourse, for instance, or Greenwich Fair. The great- 
est noise that I heard was that of a company of jolly villagers 
from a place in the neighborhood of Paris, who, as soon as the 
fireworks were over, formed themselves into a line, three or 
four abreast, and so marched singing home. As for the fire- 



THE FETES OF JULY. 39 

works, squibs and crackers are very hard to describe, and very- 
little was to be seen of them : to me, the prettiest sight was the 
vast, orderly, happy crowd, the number of children, and the ex- 
traordinary care and kindness of the parents towards these little 
creatures. It does one good to see honest, heavy epiciers, fathers 
of families, playing with them in the Tuileries, or, as to-night, 
bearing them stoutly on their shoulders, through many long 
hours, in order that the little ones, too, may have their share of 
the fun. John Bull, I fear, is more selfish : he does not take 
Mrs. Bull to the public-house ; but leaves her, for the most 
part, to take care of the children at home. 

The fete, then, is over ; the pompous black pyramid at the 
Louvre is only a skeleton now ; all the flags have been miracu- 
lously whisked away during the night, and the fine chandeliers 
which glittered down the Champs Elysees for full half a mile, 
have been consigned to their dens and darkness. Will they 
ever be reproduced for other celebrations of the glorious 29th 
of July ? — I think not ; the Government which vowed that 
there should be no more persecutions of the press, was, on 
that very 29th, seizing a Legitimist paper, for some real or 
fancied offence against it : it hacj seized, and was seizing daily, 
numbers of persons merely suspected of being disaffected (and 
you may fancy how liberty is understood, when some of these 
prisoners, the other day, on coming to trial, were sentenced 
to one day's imprisonment, after tkh'ty-six days' detentioii on sus- 
picioii). I think the Government which follows such a system, 
cannot be very anxious about any farther revolutionary fetes, 
and that the Chamber may reasonably refuse to vote more 
money for them. Why should men be so mighty proud of 
having, on a certain day, cut a certain number of their fellow- 
countrymen's throats ? The Guards and the Line employed 
this time nine years did no more than those who cannonaded 
the starving Lyonnese, or bayoneted the luckless inhabitants 
of the Rue Transnounain : — they did but fulfil the soldier's 
honorable duty : — his superiors bid him kill and he killeth : — 
perhaps, had he gone to his work with a little more heart, the 
result would have been different, and then — would the con- 
quering party have been justified in annually rejoicing over the 
conquered t Would we have thought Charles X. justified in 
causing fireworks to be blazed, and concerts to be sung, and 
speeches to be spouted, in commemoration of his victory over 
his slaughtered countrymen ? — I vv'ish, for my part, they would 
allow the people to go about their business as on the other 362 
days of the year, and leave the Champs Elysees free for the 



40 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK 

omnibuses to run, and the Tuileries in quiet, so that the nurse- 
maids might come as usual, and the newspapers be read for a 
halfpenny apiece. 

Shall I trouble you with an account of the speculations of 
these latter, and the state of the parties which they represent ? 
The complication is not a little curious, and may form, perhaps, 
a subject of graver disquisition. The July fetes occupy, as 
you may imagine, a considerable part of their columns just 
now, and it is amusing to follow them, one by one ; to read 
Tweedledum's praise, and Tweedledee's indignation — to read, 
in the Debats, how the King was received with shouts and 
loyal vivats — in the Natio7t, how not a tongue was wagged in 
his praise, but, on the instant of his departure, how the people 
called for the " Marseillaise " and applauded that. — But best 
say no more about the fete. The Legitimists were always 
indignant at it. The high Philippist party sneers at and de- 
spises it ; the Republicans hate it : it seems a joke against 
them. Why continue it ? — If there be anything sacred in the 
name and idea of loyalty, why renew this fete ? It only shows 
how a rightful monarch was hurled from hi$ throne, and a 
dexterous usurper stole his precious diadem. If there be any- 
thing noble in the memory of a day, when citizens, unused to 
war, rose against practised veterans, and, armed with the 
strength of their cause, overthrew them, why speak of it now ? 
or renew the bitter recollections of the bootless struggle and 
victory } O Lafayette ! O hero of two worlds ! O accom- 
plished Cromwell Grandison ! you have to answer for more 
than any mortal man who has played a part in history : two 
republics and one monarchy does the world owe to you ; and 
especially grateful should your country be to you. Did you 
not, in '90, make clear the path for honest Robespierre, and, in 
*3o, prepare the way for — 

[The Editor of the Btmgay Beacon would insert no more of 
this letter, which is, therefore, forever lost to the public] 



ON THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING. 4 ^ 



ON THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING: 

WITH APPROPRIATE ANECDOTES, ILLUSTRATIONS, AND 
PHILOSOPHICAL DISQUISITIONS. 

IN A LETTER TO MR. MACGILP, OF LONDON. 

The three collections of pictures at the Louvre, the Luxem- 
bourg, and the Ecole des Beaux Arts, contain a number of 
specimens of French art, since its commencement almost, and 
give the stranger a pretty fair opportunity to study and appre- 
ciate the school. The French list of painters contains some 
very good names — no very great ones, except Poussin (unless 
the admirers of Claude choose to rank him among great 
painters), — and I think the school was never in so flourishing 
a condition as it is at the present day. They say there are 
three thousand artists in this town alone ; of these a handsome 
minority paint not merely tolerably, but well understand their 
business : draw the figure accurately ; sketch with cleverness ; 
and paint portraits, churches, or restaurateurs' shops, in a de- 
cent manner. 

To account for a superiority over England — which, I think, 
as regards art, is incontestable — it must be remembered that 
the painter's trade, in France, is a very good one j better un- 
derstood, and, generally, far better paid than with us. There 
are a dozen excellent schools in which a lad may enter here, 
and, under the eye of a practised master, learn the apprentice- 
ship of his art at an expense of about ten pounds a year. In 
England there is no school except the Academy, unless the 
student can afford to pay a very large sum, and place himself 
under the tuition of some particular artist. Here, a young man, 
for his ten pounds, has all sorts of accessory instruction, models, 
&c. ; and has further, and for nothing, numberless incitements 
to study his profession which are not to be found in England : 
— the streets are filled with picture-shops, the people them- 
selves are pictures walking about ; the churches, theatres, eat- 
ing-houses, concert rooms are covered with pictures : • Nature 
itself is inclined more kindly to him, for the sky is a thousand 
times more bright and beautiful, and the sun shines for the 
greater part of the year. Add to this, incitements more selfish, 
but quite as powerful: a French artist is paid very handsomely ; 



42 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

for five hundred a year is much where all are poor ; and has a 
rank in society rather above his merits than below them, being 
caressed by hosts and hostesses in places where titles are 
laughed at and a baron is thought of no more account than a 
banker's clerk. 

The life of the young artist here is the easiest, merriest, 
dirtiest existence possible. He comes to Paris, probably at 
sixteen, from his province ; his parents settle forty pounds a 
year on him, and pay his master ; he establishes himself in the 
Pays Latin, or in the new quarter of Notre Dame de Lorette 
(which is quite peopled with painters) ; he arrives at his atelier 
at a tolerably early hour, and labors among a score of compan- 
ions as merry and poor as himself. Each gentleman has his 
favorite tobacco-pipe ; and the pictures are painted in the midst 
of a cloud of smoke, and a din of puns and choice French slang 
and a roar of choruses, of which no one can form an idea who 
has not been present at such an assembly. 

You see here every variety of coiffiwe that has ever been 
known. Some young men of genius have ringlets hanging over 
their shoulders — you may smell the tobacco with which they 
are scented across the street ; some have straight locks, black, 
oily, and redundant ; some have toupets in the famous Louis- 
Philippe fashion ; some are cropped close ; some have adopted 
the present mode — which he who would follow must, in order 
to do so, part his hair in the middle, grease it with grease, and 
gum it with gum, and iron it flat down over his ears ; when 
arrived at the ears, you take the tongs and make a couple of 
ranges of curls close round the whole head, — such curls as 
you may see under a gilt three-cornered hat, and in her Britan- 
nic Majesty's coachman's state wig. 

This is the last fashion. As for the beards, there is no end 
to them ; all my friends the artists have beards who can raise 
them ; and Nature, though she has rather stinted the bodies 
and limbs of the French nation, has been very liberal to them 
of hair, as you may see by the following specimen. Fancy 
these heads and beards under all sorts of caps — Chinese caps, 
Mandarin caps, Greek skull-caps, English jockey-caps, Russian 
or Kuzzilbash caps, Middle-age "caps (such as are called, in 
heraldry, caps of maintenance), Spanish nets, and striped 
worsted nightcaps. Fancy all the jackets you have ever seen, 
and you have before you, as well as pen can describe, the cos- 
tumes of these indescribable Frenchmen. 

In this company and costume the French student of art 
passes his days and acquires knowledge ; how he passes his 



ON THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING. 43 

evenings, at what theatres, at ^\i2X giiingiiettes^ in company with 
what seducing little milliner, there is no need to say ; but I 
knew one who pawned his coat to go to a carnival ball, and 
walked abroad very cheerfully in his blouse for six weeks, 
until he could redeem the absent garment. 

These young men (together with the students of sciences) 
comport themselves towards the sober citizens pretty much as 
the German bursch towards tho. philister, or as the military man, 
during the empire, did to ih^pekin; — from the height of their 
poverty they look down upon him with the greatest imaginable 
scorn — a scorn, I think, by which the citizen seems dazzled, 
for his respect for the arts is intense. The case is very differ- 
ent in England, where a grocer's daughter would think she 
made a mesalliance by marrying a painter, and where a literary 
man (in spite of all we can say against it) ranks below that 
class of gentry composed of the apothecary, the attorney, the 
Mdne-merchant, whose positions, ni country towns at least, are 
so equivocal. As for instance, my friend the Rev. James 
Asterisk, who has an undeniable pedigree, a paternal estate, 
and a living to boot, once dined in Warwickshire, in company 
with several squires and parsons of that enlightened county. 
Asterisk, as usual, made himself extraordinarily agreeable at 
dinner, and delighted all present with his learning and wit. 
" Who is that monstrous pleasant fellow ? " said one of the 
squires. " Don't you know .? " replied another. " It's Asterisk, 
the author of so-and-so, and a famous contributor to such-and- 
such a magazine." "Good heavens!" said the squire, quite 
horrified, " a literary man ! I thought he had been a gentle- 
man ! " 

Another instance : M. Guizot, when he was Minister here, 
had the grand hotel of the Ministry, and gave entertainments to 
all the great de par le inonde., as Brantome says, and entertained 
them in a proper ministerial magnificence. The splendid and 
beautiful Duchess of Dash was at one of his ministerial parties ; 
and went, a fortnight afterwards, as in duty bound, to pay her 
respects to M. Guizot. But it happened, in this fortnight, that 
M. Guizot was Minister no longer ; having given up his port- 
folio, and his grand hotel, to retire into private life, and to 
occupy his humble apartments in the house which he possesses, 
and of which he lets the greater poi:tion. A friend of mine was 
present at one of the ex-Minister's 'soirees., where the Duchess 
of Dash made her appearance. He says the Duchess, at her 
entrance, seemed quite astounded, and examined the premises 
with a most curious wonder. Two or three shabby little rooms, 



44 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOIC. 

with ordinary furniture, and a Minister e7i retraite, who lives by 
letting lodgings ! In our country was ever such a thing heard 
of ? No, thank heaven ! and a Briton ought to be proud of the 
difference. 

But to our muttons. This country is surely the paradise of 
painters and penny-a-liners ; and when one reads of M. Horace 
Vernet at Rome, exceeding ambassadors at Rome by his mag- 
nificence, and leading such a life as Rubens or Titian did of 
old ; whe^i one sees M. Thiers's grand villa in the Rue St. 
George (a dozen years ago he was not even a penny-a-liner : no 
such luck) ; when one contemplates, in imagination, M. Gudin, 
the marine painter, too lame to walk through the picture-gallery 
of the Louvre, accommodated, therefore, with a wheel-chair, a 
privilege of princes only, and accompanied — nay, for what I 
know, actually trundled — down the gallery by majesty itself — 
who does not long to make one of the great nation, exchange 
his native tongue for the melodious jabber of France ; or at 
least, adopt it for his native country, like Marshal Saxe, Napo- 
leon, and Anacharsis Clootz ? Noble people ! they made Tom 
Paine a deputy ; and as for Tom Macaulay, they would make 
a dynasty of him. 

Well, this being the case, no wonder there are so many 
painters in France ; and here, at least, we are back to them. 
At the Ecole Royale des Beaux Arts, you see two or three 
hundred specimens of their performances ; all the prize-men, 
since 1750, I think, being bound to leave their piize sketch or 
picture. Can anything good come out of the Royal Academy ? 
is a question which has been considerably mooted in England 
(in the neighborhood of Suffolk Street especially). The hun- 
dreds of French samples are, I think, not very satisfactory. 
The subjects are almost all what are called classical : Orestes 
pursued by every variety of Furies ; numbers of little wolf- 
sucking Romuluses ; Hectors and Andromaches in a compli- 
cation of parting embraces, and so forth ; for it was the absurd 
maxim of our forefathers, that because these subjects had been 
the fashion twenty centuries ago, they must remain so in 
sceciila s(^culoru7n ; because to these lofty heights giants had 
scaled, behold the race of pygmies must get upon stilts and 
jump at them likewise ! and on the canvas, and in the theatre, 
the French frogs (excuse the pleasantry) were instructed to 
swell out and roar as much as possible like bulls. 

What was the consequence, my dear friend 1 In trying to 
make themselves into bulls, the frogs make themselves into 
jackasses, as might be expected. For a hundred and ten years 



ON THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING. 45 

the classical humbug oppressed the nation ; and you may see, 
in this gallery of the Beaux Arts, seventy years' specimens of 
the dulness which it engendered. 

Now, as Nature made every man with a nose and eyes of 
his own, she gave him a character of his own too , and yet we, 
O foolish race ! must try our very best to ape some one or two 
of our neighbors, whose ideas fit us no more than their 
breeches ! It is the study of nature, surely, that profits us, and 
not of these imitations of her. A man, as a man, from a dust- 
man up to ^schylus, is God's work, and good to read, as all 
works of Nature are : but the silly animal is never content ; is 
ever trying to fit itself into another shape ; wants to deny its 
own identity, and has not the courage to utter its own thoughts. 
Because Lord Byron was wicked, and quarrelled with the 
world ; and found himself growing fat, and quarrelled with his 
victuals, and thus, naturally, grew ill-humored, did not half 
Europe grow ill-humored too? Did not every poet feel his 
young affections withered, and despair and darkness cast upon 
his soul .'' Because certain mighty men of old could make 
heroical statues and plays, must we not be told that there is no 
other beauty but classical beauty ? — must not every little whip- 
ster of a French poet chalk you out plays, " Henriades," and 
such-like, and vow that here was the real thing, the undeniable 
Kalon ? 

The undeniable fiddlestick ! For a hundred years, my dear 
sir, the world was humbugged by the so-called classical artists, 
as they now are by what is called the Christian art (of which 
anon) ; and it is curious to look at the pictorial traditions as 
here handed down. The consequence of them is, that scarce 
one of the classical pictures exhibited is worth much more than 
two-and-sixpence. Borrowed from statuary, in the first place, 
the color of the paintings seems, as much as possible, to par- 
ticipate in it ; they are mostly of a misty, stony green, dismal 
hue, as if they had been painted in a world where no color was. 
In every picture there are, of course, white mantles, white urns, 
white columns, white statues — those oblige accomplishments of 
the sublime. There are the endless straight noses, long eyes, 
round chins, short upper lips, just as they were ruled down for 
you in the drawing-books, as if the latter were the revelations 
of beauty, issued by supreme authority, from which there was 
no appeal ? Why is the classical reign to endure ? Why is 
yonder simpering Venus de' Medicis to be our standard of 
beauty, or the Greek tragedies to bound our notions of the 
sublime ? There was no reason why Agamemnon should set 



46 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

the fashions, and remain ava^ avdpcov to eternity : and there is 
a classical quotation, which you may have occasionally heard, 
beginning Vixe7'e fortes^ &c., which, as it avers that there was a 
great number of stout fellows before Agamemnon, may not un- 
reasonably induce us to conclude that similar heroes were to 
succeed him. Shakspeare made a better man when his imagi- 
nation moulded the mighty figure of Macbeth. And if you will 
measure Satan by Prometheus, the blind old Puritan's work 
by that of the fiery Grecian poet, does not Milton's angel sur- 
pass /Eschylus's — surpass him by " many a rood ? " 

In the same school of the Beaux Arts, where are to be found 
such a number of pale imitations of the antique, Monsieur 
Thiers (and he ought to be thanked for it) has caused to be 
placed a full-sized copy of " The Last Judgment " of Michel 
Angelo, and a number of casts from statues by the same splen- 
did hand. There is the sublime, if you please — a new sublime 
■ — an original sublime — quite as sublime as the Greek sublime. 
See yonder, in the midst of his angels, the Judge of the world 
descending in glory ; and near him, beautiful and gentle, and 
yet indescribably august and pure, the Virgin by his side. 
There is the " Moses," the grandest figure that ever was carved 
in stone. It has about it something frightfully majestic, if one 
may so speak. In examining this, and the astonishing picture 
of "The Judgment," or even a single feature of it, the spec- 
tator's sense amounts almost to pain. I would not like to be 
left in a room alone with the " Moses." How did the artist 
live amongst them, and create them 1 How did he suffer the 
painful labor of invention ? One fancies that he would have 
been scorched up, like Semele, by sights too tremendous for 
his vision to bear. One cannot imagine him, with our small 
physical endowments and weaknesses, a man like ourselves. 

As for the Ecole Royale des Beaux Arts, then, and all the 
good its students have done, as students, it is stark naught. 
When the men did anything, it was after they had left the 
academy, and began thinking for themselves. There is only 
one picture among the many hundreds that has, to my idea, 
much merit (a charming composition of Homer singing, signed 
Jourdy) ; and the only good that the academy has done by its 
pupils was to send them to Rome, where they might learn 
better things. At home, the intolerable, stupid classicalities, 
taught by men who, belonging to the least erudite country in 
Europe, were themselves, from their profession, the least learned 
among their countrymen, only weighed the pupils down, and 
cramped their hands, their eyes, and their imaginations ; drove 



ON THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING. 47 

them away from natural beauty, which, thank God, is fresh and 
attainable by us all, to-day, and yesterday, and to-morrow ; and 
sent them rambliaig after artificial grace, without the proper 
means of judging or attaining it. 

A word for the building of the Palais des Beaux Arts. It 
is beautiful, and as well finished and convenient as beautiful. 
With its light and elegant fabric, its pretty fountain, its archway 
of the Renaissance, and fragments of sculpture, you can hardly 
see, on a fine day, a place more ria?it and pleasing. 

Passing from thence up the picturesque Rue de Seine, let 
us walk to the Luxerrtbourg, where bonnes, students, grisettes, 
and old gentlemen with pigtails, love to wander in the melan- 
choly, quaint old gardens; where the peers have a new and 
comfortable court of justice, to judge all the emeiites which are 
to take place ; and where, as everybody knows, is the picture- 
gallery of modern French artists, whom government thinks 
worthy of patronage. 

A very great proportion of the pictures, as we see by the 
catalogue, are by the students whose works we have just been 
to visit at the Beaux Arts, and who, having performed their 
pilgrimage to Rome, have takea rank among the professors of 
the art. I don't know a more pleasing exhibition ; for there 
are not a dozen really bad pictures in the collection, some 
very good, and the rest showing great skill and smartness of 
execution. 

In the same way, however, that it has been supposed that 
no man could be a great poet unless he wrote a very big poem, 
the tradition is kept up among the painters, and we have here 
a vast number of large canvases, with figures of the proper 
heroical length and nakedness. The anti-classicists did not 
arise in France until about 1827 ; and in consequence, up to 
that period, we have here the old classical faith in full vigor. 
There is Brutus, having chopped his son's head off, with all 
the agony of a father, and then, calling for number two ; there 
is ^neas carrying off old Anchises ; there are Paris and Venus, 
as naked as two Hottentots, and many more such choice sub- 
jects from Lempriere. 

But the chief specimens of the sublime are in the way of 
murders, with which the catalogue swarms. Here are a few 
extracts from it : — 

7. Beaume, Chevalier de la Legion d'Honneur. " The Grand Dauphiness 
Dying." 

t8. Blonde], Chevalier de la, &c. " Zenobia found Dead." 

36. Debay, Chevalier. " The Death of Lucretia." 

38. Dejuinne. "The Death of Hector." 



48 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

34. Court, Chevalier de la, &c. "The Death of Caesar.'' 

39,40,41. Delacroix, Chevalier ._ "Dante and Virgil in the Infernal Lake,*' 
"The Massacre of Scio," and " Medea going to Murder her Children." 

43. Delaroche, Chevalier. "Joas taken from among the Dead." 

44. " The Death of Queen Elizabeth." 

45. " Edward V. and his Brother " (preparing for death). 

50. " Hecuba going to be Sacrificed." Drolling, Chevalier. 

51. Dubois. " Young Clovis found Dead." 

56. Henry Chevalier, "The Massacre of St. Bartholomew." 

75. Guerin, Chevalier. *' Cain, after the Death of Abel." 

83. Jacquand. " Death of Adelaide de Comminges." 

88. " The Death of Eudamidas." 

•93. "The Death of Hymetto." 

103. " The Death of Philip of Austria."— And so on. 

You see what woeful sulfjects they talfe, and how profusely 
they are decorated with knighthood. They are like the Black 
Brunswickers these painters, and ought to be called Chevaliers 
de la Mart. I don't know why the merriest people in the 
world should please themselves with such grim representations 
and varieties of murder, or why murder itself "should be con- 
sidered so eminently sublime and poetical. It is good at the 
end of a tragedy ; but, then, it is good because it is the end, 
and because, by the events foregone, the mind is prepared for 
it. But these men will have nothing but fifth acts ; and seem 
to skip, as unworthy, all the circumstances leading to them. 
This, however, is part of the scheme — the bloated, unnatural, 
stilted, spouting, sham sublime, that our teachers have believed 
and tried to pass off as real, and which your humble servant 
and other anti-humbuggists should heartily, according to the 
strength that is in them, endeavor to pull down. What, for in- 
stance, could Monsieur Lafond care about the death of Eudam- 
idas ? What was Hecuba to Chevalier Drolling, or Chevalier 
Drolling to Hecuba ? I would lay a wager that neither of them 
ever conjugated to-toj^ and that their school learning carried 
them not as far as the letter, but only to the game of taw. 
How were they to be inspired by such subjects ? From having 
seen Talma and Mademoiselle Georges flaunting in sham Greek 
costumes, and having read up the articles Eudamidas, Hecuba, 
in the '' Mythological Dictionary." What a classicism, inspired 
by rouge, gas-lamps, and a few lines in Lempriere, and copied, 
half from ancient statues, and half from a naked guardsman at 
one shilling and sixpence the hour ! 

Delacroix is a man of a very different genius, and his 
" Medea " is a genuine creation of a noble fancy. For most of 
the others, Mrs. Brownrigg, and her two female 'prentices, 
would have done as well as the desperate Colchian with her 
7c/.yo. (fO~(/-a. M. Delacroix has produced a number of rude, 
barbarous pictures; but there is the stamp of genius on all of 



ON THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING. 



49 



them, — the great poetical intention, which is worth all your 
execution. Delaroche is another man of high merit ; with not 
such a great hea7't, perhaps, as the other, but a fine and care- 
ful draughtsman, and an excellent arranger of his subject. 
" The Death of Elizabeth " is a raw young performance seem- 
ingly — not, at least, to my taste. The " Enfans d'Edouard " is 
renowned over Europe, and has appeared in a hundred different 
ways in print. It is properly pathetic and gloomy, and merits 
fully its high reputation. This painter rejoices in such subjects 
— in what Lord Portsmouth used to call " black jobs." He 
has killed Charles I. and Lady Jane Gray, and the Dukes of 
Guise, and I don't know whom besides. He is, at present, 
occupied with a vast work at the Beaux Arts, where the writer 
of this had the honor of seeing him, — a little, keen-looking 
man, some five feet in height. He wore, on this important 
occasion, a bandanna round his head, and was in the act of 
smoking a cigar. 

Horace Vernet, whose beautiful daughter Delaroche mar- 
ried, is the king of French battle-painters — an amazingly rapid 
and dexterous draughtsman, who has Napoleon and all the 
campaigns by heart, and has painted the Grenadier Frangais 
under all sorts of attitudes. His pictures on such subjects are 
spirited, natural, and excellent ; and he is so clever a man, that 
all he does is good to a certain degree. His " Judith " is 
somewhat violent, perhaps. His '' Rebecca " most pleasing ; 
and not the less so for a little pretty affectation of attitude and 
needless singularity of costume. " Raphael and Michael 
Angelo " is as clever a picture as can be — clever is just the 
word — the groups and drawing excellent, the coloring pleasantly 
bright and gaudy ; and the French students study it incessantly; 
there are a dozen who copy it for one who copies Delacroix. 
His little scraps of wood-cuts, in the now publishing " Life of 
Napoleon," are perfect gems in their way, and the noble price 
paid for them not a penny more than he merits. 

The picture, by Court, of " The Death of Caesar," is remark- 
able for effect and excellent workmanship ; and the head of 
Brutus (who looks like Armand Carrel) is full of energy. There 
are some beautiful heads of women, and some very good color 
in the picture. Jacquand's " Death of Adelaide de Com- 
minges " is neither more nor less than beautiful. Adelaide 
had, -it appears, a lover, who betook himself to a convent of 
Trappists. She followed him thither, disguised as a man, took 
the vows, and was not discovered by him till on her death-bed. 
The painter has told this story in a most pleasing and affecting 

4 



50 "2 HE PARIS SKETCH BOOK, 

manner ; the picture is full of o?tdion and melanchoty grace. 
The objects, too, are capitally represented ; and the tone and 
color very good. Decaisne's " Guardian Angel " is not so good 
in color, but is equally beautiful in expression and grace. A 
little child and a nurse are asleep : an angel watches the in- 
fant. You see women look very wistfully at this sweet picture ; 
and what triumph would a painter have more ? 

We must not quit the Luxembourg without noticing the dash- 
ing sea-pieces of Gudin, and one or two landscapes by Giroux 
(the plain of Grasivaudan), and " The Prometheus " of Aligny. 
This is an imitation, perhaps ; as is a noble picture of " Jesus 
Christ and the Children," by Flandrin ; but the artists are im- 
itating better models, at any rate ; and one begins to perceive 
that the odious classical dynasty is no more. Poussin's mag- 
nificent "Polyphemus " (I only know a print of that marvellous 
composition) has, perhaps, suggested the first-named picture ; 
and the latter has been inspired by a good enthusiastic study of 
the Roman schools. 

Of this revolution. Monsieur Ingres has been one of the 
chief instruments. He was, before Horace Vernet, president 
of the French Academy at Rome, and is famous as a chief of a 
school. When he broke up his atelier here, to set out for his 
presidency, many of his pupils attended him faithfully some 
way on his journey ; and some, with scarcely a penny in their 
pouches, walked through France, and across the Alps, in a 
pious pilgrimage to Rome, being determined not to forsake 
their old master. Such an action was worthy of them, and of 
the high rank which their profession holds in France, where 
the honors to be acquired by art are only inferior to those 
which are gained in war. One reads of such peregrinations in 
old days, when the scholars of some great Italian painter fol- 
lowed him from Venice to Rome, or from Florence to Ferrara. 
In regard of Ingres' individual merit as a painter, the writer of 
this is not a fair judge, having seen but three pictures by him ; 
one being a plafond in the Louvre, which his disciples much 
admire. 

Ingres stands between the Imperio-Davido-classical school 
of French art, and the namby-pamby mystical German school, 
which is for carrying us back to Cranach and Durer, and which 
is making progress here. 

For everything here finds imitation : the French have the 
genius of imitation and caricature. This absurd humbug, called 
the Christian or Catholic art, is sure to tickle our neighbors, 
and will be a favorite with them, when better known. My dear 



ON THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING. ^t 

MacGilp, I do believe this to be a greater humbug than the 
humbug of David and Girodet, inasmuch as the latter was 
founded on Nature at least ; whereas the former is made up 
of silly affectations, and improvements upon Nature. Here, 
for instance, is Chevalier Ziegier's picture of " St. Luke paint- 
ing the Virgin." St. Luke has a monk's dress on, embroidered, 
however, smartly round the sleeves. The Virgin sits in an 
immense yellow-ochre halo, with her son in her arms. She 
looks preternaturally solemn ; as does St. Luke, who is eyeing 
his paint-brush with an intense ominous mystical look. They 
call this Catholic art. There is nothing, my dear friend, more 
easy in life. First, take your colors, and rub them down clean, — ■ 
bright carmine, bright yellow, bright sienna, bright ultramarine, 
bright green. Make the costumes of your figures as much as pos- 
sible like the costumes of the early part of the fifteenth century. 
Paint them in with the above colors ; and if on a gold ground, the 
more " Catholic " your art is. Dress your apostles like priests 
before the altar; and remember to have a good commodity of 
croziers, censers, and other such gimcracks, as you may see in 
the Catholic chapels, in Sutton Street and elsewhere. Deal in 
Virgins, and dress them like a burgomaster's wife by Cranach or 
Van Eyck. Give them all long twisted tails to their gowns, 
and proper angular draperies. Place all their heads on one 
side, with the eyes shut, and the proper solemn simper. At 
the back of the head, draw, and gild with gold-leaf, a halo, or 
glory, of the exact shape of a cart-wheel : and you have the 
thing done. It is Catholic art tout ci-ache, as Louis Philippe 
says. We have it still in England, handed down to us for four 
centuries, in the pictures on the cards, as the redoubtable king 
and queen of clubs. Look at them : you will see that the cos- 
tumes and attitudes are precisely similar to those which figure 
in the catholicities of the school of Overbeck and Cornelius. 

Before you take your cane at the door, look for one instant 
at the statue-room. Yonder is Jouffley's " Jeune Fille con- 
fiant son premier secret a Ve'nus." Charming, charming ! 
It is from the exhibition of this year only ; and, I think, the 
best sculpture in the gallery — pretty, fanciful, naive; admirable 
in workmanship and imitation of Nature. I have seldom seen 
flesh better represented in marble. Examine, also, Jaley's 
" Pudeur," Jacquot's "Nymph," and Rude's ''Boy with the 
Tortoise." These are not very exalted subjects, or what are 
called exalted, and do not go beyond simple, smiling beauty 
and nature. But what then ? Are we gods, Miltons, Michel 
Angelos, that can leave earth when we please, and soar to 



^2 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK, 

heights immeasurable ? No, my dear MacGilp ; but the fools 
of academicians would fain make us so. Are you not, and half 
the painters in London, panting for an opportunity to show 
your genius in a great " historical picture ? " O blind race ! 
Have you wings ? Not a feather : and yet you must be ever 
puffing, sweating up to the tops of rugged hills ; and, arrived 
there, clapping and shaking your ragged elbows, and making 
as if you would fly ! Come down, silly Daedalus ; come down 
to the lowly places in which Nature ordered you to walk. The 
sweet flowers are springing there ; the fat muttons are waiting 
there ; the pleasant sun shines there ; be content and humble, 
and take your share of the good cheer. 

While we have been indulging in this discussion, the om- 
nibus has gayly conducted us across the water ; and k garde 
qui veille a la porte du Louvre nc defe7id pas our entry. 

What a paradise this gallery is for French "students, or for- 
eigners who sojourn in the capital ! It is hardly necessary to 
say that the brethren of the brush are not usually supplied by 
Fortune with any extraordinary wealth, or means of enjoying 
the luxuries with which Paris, more than any other city, 
abounds. But here they have a luxury which surpasses all 
others, and spend their days in a palace which all the money of 
all the Rothschilds could not buy. They sleep, perhaps, in a 
garret, and dine in a cellar ; but no grandee in Europe has such 
a drawing-room. Kings' houses have, at best, but damask 
hangings, and gilt cornices. What are these to a wall covered 
with canvas by Paul Veronese, or a hundred yards of Rubens ? 
Artists from England, who have a national gallery that re- 
sembles a moderate-sized gin-shop, who may not copy pictures, 
except under particular restrictions, and on rare and particular 
days, may revel here to their hearts' content. Here is a room 
half a mile long, with as many windows as Aladdin's palace, 
open from sunrise till evening, and free to all manners and all 
varieties of study : the only puzzle to the student is to select 
the one he shall begin upon, and keep his eyes away from the 
rest 

Fontaine's grand staircase, with its arches, and painted 
ceilings and shining Doric columns, leads directly to the gal- 
lery ; but it is thought too fine for working days, and is only 
opened for the public entrance on Sabbath. A little back stair 
(leading from a court, in which stand numerous bas-reliefs, and 
a solemn sphinx, of polished granite,) is the common entry for 
students and others, who, during the week, enter the gallery. 

Hither have lately been transported a number of the works 



ON- THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING. 



53 



of French artists, which formerly covered the walls of the Lux- 
embourg (death only entitles the French painter to a place in 
the Louvre) ; and let us confine ourselves to the Frenchmen 
only, for the space of this letter. 

I have seen, in a fine private collection at St. Germain, one 
or two admirable single figures of David, full of life, truth, and 
gayety. The color is not good, but all the rest excellent ; and 
one of these so much-lauded pictures is the portrait of a 
washerwoman. " Pope Pius," at the Louvre, is as bad in color 
as remarkable for its vigor and look of life. The man had a 
genius for painting portraits and common life, but must attempt 
the heroic ; — failed signally ; and what is worse, carried a 
whole nation blundering after him. Had you told a French- 
man so, twenty years ago, he would have thrown the dementi in 
your teeth ; or, at least, laughed at you in scornful incredulity. 
They say of us that we don't know when we are beaten : they 
go a step further, and swear their defeats are victories. David 
was a part of the glory of the empire ; and one might as well 
have said then that " Romulus " was a bad picture, as that 
Toulouse was a lost battle. Old-fashioned people, who believe 
in the Emperor, believe in the Theatre Fran^ais, and believe 
that Ducis improved upon Shakspeare, have the above opinion. 
Still, it is curious to remark, in this place, how art and litera- 
ture become party matters, and political sects have their favor- 
ite painters and authors. 

Nevertheless, Jacques Louis David is dead. He died about 
a year after his bodily demise in 1825. The romanticism 
killed him. Walter Scott, from his Castle of Abbotsford, sent 
out a troop of gallant young Scotch adventurers, merry outlaws, 
valiant knights, and savage Highlanders, who, with trunk hosen 
and buff jerkins, fierce two-handed swords, and harness on 
their back, did challenge, combat, and overcome the heroes and 
demigods of Greece and Rome. Not7'e Dame d la rescoiissel 
Sir Brian de Bois Guilbert has borne Hector of Troy clear out 
of his saddle. Andromache may weep : but her spouse is be- 
yond the reach of physic. See ! Robin Hood twangs his bow, 
and the heathen gods fly, howling. Montjoie Saint Denis / down 
goes Ajax under the mace of Dunois ; and yonder are Leoni- 
das and Romulus begging their lives of Rob Roy Macgregor. 
Classicism is dead. Sir John Froissarthas taken Dr. Lempriere 
by the nose, and reigns sovereign. 

Of the great pictures of David the defunct, we need not, 
then, say much. Romulus is a mighty fine young fellow, no 
dovbt : and if he has come out to battle stark naked (except a 



54 



THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 



very handsome helmet), it is because the costume became him 
and shows off his figure to advantage. But was there ever 
anything so absurd as this passion for the nude, which was 
followed by all the painters of the Davidian epoch? And how 
are we to suppose yonder straddle to be the true characteristic 
of the heroic and the sublime ? Romulus stretches his legs as 
far as ever nature will allow; the Horatii, in receiving their 
swords, think proper to stretch their legs too, and to thrust for- 
ward their arms, thus, — 

Romulus. The Horatii. 

Romulus's is the exact action of a telegraph ; and the Horatii 
are all in the position of the lunge. Is this the sublime ? Mr. 
Angelo, of Bond Street, might admire the attitude ; his name- 
sake, Michel, I don't think would. 

The little picture of " Paris and Helen," one of the mas- 
ters' earliest, I believe, is likewise one of his best : the details 
are exquisitely painted. Helen looks needlessly sheepish, and 
Paris has a most odious ogle ; but the limbs of the male jfigure 
are beautifully designed, and have not the green tone which 
you see in the later pictures of the master. What is the 
meaning of this green ? Was it the fashion, or the varnish t 
Girodet's pictures are green ; Gros's emperors and grenadiers 
have universally the jaundice. Gerard's " Psyche " has a most 
decided green-sickness ; and I am at a loss, I confess, to ac- 
count for the enthusiasm which this performance inspired on 
its first appearance before the public. 

In the same room with it is Girodet's ghastly " Deluge " 
and Gericault's dismal " Medusa." Gericault died, they say, 
for want of fame. He was a man who possessed a consider- 
able fortune of his own ; but pined because no one in his day 
would purchase his pictures, and so acknowledge his talent. 
At present, a scrawl from his pencil brings an enormous' price. 
All his works have a grand cachet ; he never did anything mean. 
When he painted the " Raft of the Medusa," it is said he lived 
for a long time among the corpses which he painted, and that 
his studio was a second Morgue. If you have not seen the 
picture, you are familiar, probably, with Reynolds's admirable 
engraving of it. A huge black sea ; a raft beating upon it ; a 



ON THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING. 



55 



horrid company of men dead, half dead, writhing and frantic 
with hideous hunger or hideous hope ; and, far away, black, 
against a stormy sunset, a sail. The story is powerfully told, 
and has a legitimate tragic interest, so to speak, — deeper, be- 
cause more natural, than Girodet's green " Deluge," for in- 
stance : or his livid " Orestes," or red-hot " Clytemnestra." 

Seen from a distance the latter's " Deluge " has a certain 
awe-inspiring air with it. A slimy green man stands on a green 
rock, and clutches hold of a tree. On the green man's shoul- 
ders is his old father, in a green old age ; to him hangs his 
wife, with a babe on her breast, and dangling at her hair, an- 
other child. In the water floats a corpse (a beautiful head ; 
and a green sea and atmosphere envelopes all this dismal 
group. The old father is represented with a bag of money in 
his hand ; and the tree, which the man catches, is cracking, 
and just on the point of giving way. These two points were 
considered very fine by the critics : they are two such ghastly 
epigrams as continually disfigure French Tragedy. For this 
reason I have never been able to read Racine with pleasure, — 
the dialogue is so crammed with these lugubrious good things — 
melancholy antitheses — sparkling undertakers' wit; but this is 
heresy, and had better be spoken discreetly. 

The gallery contains a vast number of Poussin's pictures ) 
they put me in mind of the color of objects in dreams, a 
strange, hazy, lurid hue. How noble are some of his land- 
scapes ! What a depth of solemn shadow is in yonder wood, 
near which, by the side of a black water, halts Diogenes. The 
air is thunder-laden, and breathes heavily. You hear ominous 
whispers in the vast forest gloom. 

Near it is a landscape, by Carel Dujardin, I believe, con- 
ceived in quite a different mood, but exquisitely poetical too. 
A horseman is riding up a hill, and giving money to a blowsy 
beggar-wench. O matutini rores aurcBque sahibres ! in what a 
wonderful way has the artist managed to create you out of a 
few bladders of paint and pots of varnish. You can see the 
matutinal dews twinkling in the grass, and feel the fresh, salu- 
brious airs (" the breath of Nature blowing free," as the corn 
law man sings) blowing free over the heath ; silvery vapors are 
rising up from the blue lowlands. You can tell the hour of the 
morning and the time of the year : you can do anything but 
describe it in words. As with regard to the Poussin above 
mentioned, one can never pass it without bearing away a cer- 
tain pleasing, dreamy feeling of awe and musing; the other 
landscape inspires the spectator infallibly with the most Se- 



56 ^t^E PARIS SKETCH BOOfC. 

lightful briskness and cheerfulness of spirit. Herein lies the 
vast privilege of the landscape-painter : he does not address 
you with one fixed particular subject or expression, but with a 
thousand never contemplated by himself, and which only arise 
out of occasion. You may always be looking at a natural 
landscape as at a fine pictorial imitation of one ; it seems 
eternally producing new thoughts in your bosom, as it does 
fresh beauties from its own. I cannot fancy more delightful, 
cheerful, silent companions for a man than half a dozen land- 
scapes hung round his study. Portraits, on the contrary, and 
large pieces of figures, have a painful, fixed, staring look, which 
must jar upon the mind in many of its moods. Fancy living 
in a room with David's sans-culotte Leonidas staring perpetu- 
ally in your face ! 

There is a little Watteau here, and a rare piece of fantas- 
tical brightness and gayety it is. What a delightful affectation 
about yonder ladies flirting their fans, and trailing about in 
their long brocades ! What splendid dandies are those, ever- 
smirking, turning out their toes, with broad blue ribbons to tie 
up their crooks and their pigtails, and wonderful gorgeous 
crimson satin breeches ! Yonder, in the midst of a golden 
atmosphere, rises a bevy of little round Cupids, bubbling up 
in clusters as out of a champagne-bottle, and melting away in 
air. There is, to be sure, a hidden analogy between liquors 
and pictures : the eye is deliciously tickled by these frisky 
Watteaus, and yields itself up to a light, smiling, gentlemanlike 
intoxication. Thus, were we inclined to pursue further this 
mighty subject, yonder landscape of Claude; — calm, fresh, deli- 
cate, yet full of flavor, — should be likened to a bottle of Cha- 
teau Margaux. And what is the Poussin before spoken of 
but Romance Gelee ? — heavy, sluggish, — the luscious odor al- 
most sickens you ; a sultry sort of drink ; your limbs sink un- 
der it ; you feel as if you had been drinking hot blood. 

An ordinary man would be whirled away in a fever, or 
would hobble off this mortal stage, in a premature gout-fit, if 
he too early or too often indulged in such tremendous drink. 
I think in my heart I am fonder of pretty third-rate pictures 
than of your great thundering first-rates. Confess how many 
times you have read Beranger, and how many Milton ? If you 
go to the Star and Garter, don't you grow sick of that vast, 
luscious landscape, and long for the sight of a couple of cows, 
or a donkey, and a few yards of common ? Donkeys, my dear 
MacGilp, since we have come to this subject, say not so ; 
Rithmond Hill for them. Milton they never grow tired of; 



ON THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING. 57 

and are as familiar with Raphael as Bottom with exquisite 
Titania. Let us thank heaven, my dear sir, for according to 
us the power to taste and appreciate the pleasures of medi- 
ocrity. I have never heard that we were great geniuses. 
Earthy are we, and of the earth ; glimpses of the sublime are 
but rare to us ; leave we them to great geniuses, and to the 
donkeys ; and if it nothing profit us aerias tejitdsse domos along 
with them, let us thankfully remain below, being merry and 
humble. 

I have now only to mention the charming " Cruche Cas- 
see " of Greuze which all the young ladies delight to copy : 
and of which the color (a thought too blue, perhaps) is marvel- 
lously graceful and delicate. There are three more pictures 
by the artist, containing exquisite female heads and color ; but 
they have charms for French critics which are difficult to be 
discovered by English eyes ; and the pictures seem weak to 
me. A very fine picture by Bon Bollongue, " Saint Benedict 
resuscitating a Child," deserves particular attention, and is 
superb in vigor and richness of color. You must look, too, at 
the large, noble, melancholy landscapes of Philippe de Cham- 
pagne ; and the two magnificent Italian pictures of Leopold 
Robert : they are, perhaps, the very finest pictures that the 
French school has produced, — as deep as Poussin, of a better 
color, and of a wonderful minuteness and veracity in the repre- 
sentation of objects. 

Every one of Lesueur's church-pictures are worth examin- 
ing and admiring ; they are full of " unction " and pious mys- 
tical grace. " Saint Scholastica " is divine ; and the " Taking 
down from the Cross " as noble a composition as ever was 
seen ; I care not by whom the other may be. There is more 
beauty, and less affectation, about this picture than you will 
find in the performances of many Italian masters, with high- 
sounding names (out with it, and say Raphael at once). I 
hate those simpering Madonnas. I declare that the '' Jardin- 
iere " is a puking, smirking miss, with nothing heavenly about 
her. I vow that the " Saint Elizabeth " is a bad picture, — a 
bad composition badly drawn, badly colored, in a bad imita- 
tion of Titian, — a piece of vile affectation. I say, that when 
Raphael painted this picture two years before his death, the 
spirit of painting had gone out of him ; he was no longer in- 
spired 1 it luas time that he should die ! ! 

There, — the murder is out ! My paper is filled to the brim, 
and there is no time to speak of Lesueur's " Crucifixion," which 
is odiously colored, to be sure ; but earnest, tender, simple, 



jg THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

holy. But such things are most difficult to translate into 
words ; — one lays down the pen, and thinks and thinks. The 
figures appear, and take their places one by one : ranging them- 
selves according to order, in light or in gloom, the colors are 
reflected duly in the little camera obscura of the brain, and the 
whole picture lies there complete ; but can you describe it ? 
No, not if pens were fitch-brushes, and words were bladders of 
paint. With which, for the present, adieu. 

Your faithful 

M. A. T. 
To Mr. Robert MacGilp, 

Newman Street, London. 



THE PAINTER'S BARGAIN. 

Simon Gambouge was the son of Solomon Gambouge ; and 
as all the world knows, both father and son were astonishingly 
clever fellows at their profession. Solomon painted landscapes, 
which nobody bought ; and Simon took a higher line, and paint- 
ed portraits to admiration, only nobody came to sit to him. 

As he was not gaining five pounds a year by his profession, 
and had arrived at the age of twenty, at least, Simon deter- 
mined to better himself by taking a wife, — a plan which a 
number of other wise men adopt, in similar years and circum- 
stances. So Simon prevailed upon a butcher's daughter (to 
whom he owed considerably for cutlets) to quit the meat shop 
and follow him. Griskinissa — such was the fair creature's 
name — " was as lovely a bit of mutton," her father said, " as 
ever a man would wish to stick a knife into." She had sat to 
the painter for all sorts of characters ; and the curious who 
possess any of Gambouge's pictures will see her as Venus, 
Minerva, Madonna, and in numberless other characters : — 
Portrait of a lady — Griskinissa; Sleeping Nymph — Griskinissa, 
without a rag of clothes, lying in a forest ; Maternal Solicitude 
— Griskinissa again, with young Master Gambouge, who Was by 
this time the offspring of their affections. 

The lady brought the painter a handsome little fortune of a 
couple of hundred pounds ; and as long as this sum lasted no 
woman could be more lovely or loving. But want began speed- 
ily to attack their little household ; bakers' bills were unpaid \ 
j:ent was 4ue, and the reckless landlord gave no quarter ; and, 



THE PAINTER'S BARGAIN. 



59 



to crown the whole, her father, unnatural butcher ! suddenly 
stopped the supplies of mutton-chops ; and swore that his 
daughter, and the dauber her husband, should have no more 
of his wares. At first they embraced tenderly, and, kissing and 
crying over their little infant, vowed to heaven that they would 
do without : but in the course of the evening Griskinissa grew 
peckish, and poor Simon pawned his best coat. 

When this habit of pawning is discovered, it appears to the 
poor a kind of Eldorado. Gambouge and his wife were so de- 
lighted, that they, in the course of a month, made away with her 
gold chain, her great warming-pan, his best crimson plush in- 
expressibles, two wigs, a washhand basin and ewer, fire-irons, 
window-curtains, crockery, and arm-chairs. Griskinissa said, 
smiling, that she had found a second father in her uncle, — a 
base pun, which showed that her mind was corrupted, and 
that she was no longer the tender, simple Griskinissa of other 
days. 

I am sorry to say that she had taking to drinking ; she 
swallowed the warming-pan in the course of three days, and 
fuddled herself one whole evening with the crimson plush 
breeches. 

Drinking is the devil — the father, that is to say, of all vices. 
Griskinissa's face and her mind grew ugly together ; her good 
humor changed to bilious, bitter discontent : her pretty, fond 
epithets, to foul abuse and swearing ; her tender blue eyes grew 
watery and blear, and the peach-color on her cheeks fled from 
its old habitation, and crowded up into her nose, where, with a 
number of pimples, it stuck fast. Add to this a dirty, draggle- 
tailed chintz ; long, matted hair, wandering into her eyes, and 
over her lean shoulders, which were once so snowy, and you 
have the picture of drunkenness and Mrs. Simon Gambouge. 

Poor Simon, who had been a gay, lively fellow enough in 
the days of his better fortune, was completely cast down by his 
present ill-luck, and cowed by the ferocity of his wife. From 
morning till night the neighbors could hear this woman's 
tongue, and understand her doings ; bellows went skimming 
across the room, chairs were flumped down on the floor, and 
poor Gambouge's oil and varnish pots went clattering through 
the windows, or down the stairs. The baby roared all day ; 
and Simon sat pale and idle in a corner, taking a small sup at 
the brandy-bottle, when Mrs. Gambouge was out of the way. 

One day, as he sat disconsolately at his easel, furbishing up 
a picture of his wife, in the character of Peace, which he had 
commenced a year before, he was more than ordinarily desper- 



6o THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK, 

ate, and cursed and swore in the most pathetic manner. " O 
miserable fate of genius ! " cried he, " was I, a man of such 
commanding talents, born for this ? to be bullied by a fiend of 
a wife ; to have my masterpieces neglected by the world, or 
sold only for a few pieces ? Cursed be the love which has mis- 
led me ; cursed be the art which is unworthy of me ! Let me 
dig or steal, let me sell myself as a soldier, or sell myself to the 
Devil, I should not be more wretched than I am now ! " 

" Quite the contrary," cried a small cheery voice. 

" What 1 " exclaimed Gambouge, trembling and surprised. 
" Who's there ? — where are you i* — who are you ? " 

" You were just speaking of me," said the voice. 

Gambouge held, in his left hand, his palette ; in his right, a 
bladder of crimson lake, which he was about to squeeze out 
upon the mahogany. " Where are you t " cried he again. 

" S-q-u-e-e-^-e ! " exclaimed the little voice. 

Gambouge picked out the nail from the bladder, and gave a 
squeeze ; where, as sure as I am living, a little imp spurted out 
from the hole upon the palette, and began laughing in the most 
singular and oily manner. 

When first born he was little bigger than a tadpole ; then 
he grew to be as big as a mouse ; then he arrived at the size 
of a cat : and then he jumped off the palette, and, turning head 
over heels, asked the poor painter what he wanted with him. 

The strange little animal twisted head over heels, and fixed 
himself at last upon the top of Gambouge's easel, — smearing 
out, with his heels, all the white and vermilion which had just 
been laid on the allegoric portrait of Mrs. Gambouge. 

" What ! " exclaimed Simon, " is it the " 

" Exactly so ; talk of me, you know, and I'm always at 
hand : besides, I am not half so black as I am painted, as you 
will see when you know me a little better." 

"Upon my word," said the painter, it is a very singular sur- 
prise which you have given me. To tell truth, 1 did not even 
believe in your existence." 

The little imp put on a theatrical air, and, with one of Mr. 
Macready's best looks, said, — 

" There are more things in heaven and earth. Gambogio, 
Than are dreamed of in your philosophy-" 

Gambouge, being a Frenchman, did not understand the 
quotation, but felt somehow strangely and singularly interested 
in the conversation of his new friend. 

Diabolus continued : " You are a man of merit, and want 



THE PAINTER'S BARGAIN, 6 1 

money ; you will starve on your merit ; you can only get money 
from me. Come, my friend, how much is it ? I ask the easiest 
interest in the world : old Mordecai, the usurer, has made you 
pay twice as heavily before now : nothing but the signature of 
a bond, which is a mere ceremony and the transfer of an arti- 
cle which, in itself, is a supposition — a valueless, windy, uncer- 
tain property of yours, called, by some poet of your own, I 
think, an a?iimula, vagula, blandula — bah ! there is no use beat- 
ing about the bush — I mean a soul. Come, let me have it ; you 
know you will sell it some other way, and not get such good 
pay for your bargain ! " — and, having made this speech, the 
Devil pulled out from his fob a sheet as big as a double Times, 
only there was a different stamp in the corner. 

It is useless and tedious to describe law documents ; law- 
yers only love to read them ; and they have as good in Chitty 
as any that are to be found in the Devil's own ; so nobly have 
the apprentices emulated the skill of the master. Suffice it to 
say, that poor Gambouge read over the paper, and signed it. 
He was to have all he wished for seven years, and at the end 

of that time was to become the property of the ; ^robibrb 

that, during the course of the seven years, every single wish 
which he might form should be gratified by the other of the 
contracting parties ; otherwise the deed became null and non- 
avenue, and Gambouge should be left " to go to the his own 

way." 

" You will never see me again," said Diabolus, in shaking 
hands with poor Simon, on whose fingers he left such a mark 
as is to be seen at this day — " never, at least, unless you want 
me ; for everything you ask will be performed in the most quiet 
and every-day manner : believe me, it is best and most gentle- 
manlike, and avoids anything like scandal. But if you set me 
about anything which is extraordinary, and out of the course of 
nature, as it were, come I must, you know ; and of this you are 
the best judge." So saying, Diabolus disappeared ; but whethei 
up the chimney, through the keyhole, or by any other aperturs 
or contrivance, nobody knows. Simon Gambouge was left in a 
fever of delight, as, heaven forgive me ! I believe many a 
worthy man would be, if he were allowed an opportunity to 
make a similar bargain. 

" Heigho ! " said Simon. " I wonder whether this is a 
reality or a dream. I am sober, I know ; for who will give m& 
credit for the means to get drunk ? and as for sleeping, I'm too 
hungry for that. I wish I could see a capon and a bottle ot 
white wine." 



5 2 THE PA RIS SKE TCH B O OK. 

" Monsieur Simon ! " cried a voice on the landing-place. 

"C'est ici," quoth Gambouge, hastening to open the door. 
He did so ; and lo ! there was a restaurateur'' s boy at the door, 
supporting a tray, a tin-covered dish, and plates on the same ; 
and, by its side, a tall amber-colored flask of Sauterne. 

" I am the new boy, sir," exclaimed this youth, on entering ; 
"but I believe this is the right door, and you asked for these 
things." 

Simon grinned, and said, " Certainly, I did ask for these 
things." But such was the effect which his interview with the 
demon had had on his innocent mind, that he took them, 
although he knew that they were for old Simon, the Jew dandy, 
who was mad after an opera girl, and lived on the floor beneath. 

^'Go, my boy," he said; "it is good: call in a couple of 
hours, and remove the plates and glasses." 

The little waiter trotted down stairs, and Simon sat greedily 
down to discuss the capon and the white wine. He bolted the 
legs, he devoured the wings, he cut every morsel of flesh from 
the breast ; — seasoning his repast with pleasant draughts of 
wine, and caring nothing for the inevitable bill, which was to 
follow all. 

" Ye gods ! " said he, as he scraped away at the backbone, 
" what a dinner ! what wine I — and how gayly served up too ! " 
There were silver forks and spoons, and the remnants of the 
fowl were upon a silver dish. " Why, the money for this dish 
and these spoons," cried Simon, " would keep me and Mrs. G. 
for a month ! I wish " — and here Simon whistled, and turned 
round to see that nobody was peeping — " I wish the plate were 
mine." 

Oh, the horrid progress of the Devil ! " Here they are," 
thought Simon to himself ; " why should not I take the?n ? " 
And take them he did. " Detection," said he, " is not so bad 
as starvation ; and I would as soon live at the galleys as live 
with Madame Gambouge." 

So Gambouge shovelled dish and spoons into the flap of 
his surtout, and ran down stairs as if the Devil were behind 
him — as, indeed, he was. 

He immediately made for the house of his old friend the 
pawnbroker — that establishment which is called in France the 
Mont de Peiet. " I am obliged to come to you again, my old 
friend," said Simon, " with some family plate, of which I beseech 
you to take care." 

The pawnbroker smiled as he examined the goods. " I can 
give you nothing upon them," said he. 



THE PAINTER'S BARGAIN. 63 

" What ! " cried Simon ; " not even tlie worth of the silver ?" 

" No ; I could buy them at that price at the ' Cafe Morisot,' 
Rue de la Verrerie, where, I suppose, you got them a little 
cheaper." And, so saying, he showed to the guilt-stricken 
Gambouge how the name of that coffee-house was inscribed 
upon every one of the articles which he had wished to pawn. 

The effects of conscience are dreadful indeed. Oh ! how 
fearful is retribution, how deep is despair, how bitter is remorse 
for crime: — when crime is found out I — otherwise, conscience 
takes matters much more easily. Gambouge cursed his fate, 
and swore henceforth to be virtuous. 

"But, hark ye, my friend," continued the honest broker, 
" there is no reason why, because I cannot lend upon these 
things, I should not buy them : they will do to melt, if for no 
other purpose. Will you have half the money ?— speak, or I 
peach." 

Simon's resolves about virtue were dissipated instanta- 
neously. " Give me half," he said, " and let me go. — What 
scoundrels are these pawnbrokers ! " ejaculated he, as he passed 
out of the accursed shop, " seeking every wicked pretext to rob 
the poor man of his hard-won gain." 

When he had marched forwards for a street or two, Gam- 
bouge counted the money which he had received, and found 
that he was in possession of no less than a hundred francs. It 
was night, as he reckoned out his equivocal gains, and he 
counted them at the light of a lamp. He looked up at the 
lamp, in doubt as to the course he should next pursue : upon 
it was inscribed the simple number, 152. "A gambling-house," 
thought Gambouge. '' I wish I had half the money that is 
now on the table, up stairs." 

He mounted, as many a rogue has done before him, and 
found half a hundred persons busy at a table of rouge et noir. 
Gambouge's five napoleons looked insignificant by the side of 
the heaps which were around him ; but the effects of the wine, 
of the theft, and of the detection by the pawnbroker, were 
upon him, and he threw down his capital stoutly upon the o o. 

It is a dangerous spot that o o, or double zero ; but to 
Simon it was more lucky than to the rest of the world. Tlie 
ball went spinning round — in "its predestined circle rolled," as 
Shelley has it, after Goethe — and plumped down at last in the 
double zero. One hundred and thirty-five gold napoleons 
(louis they were then) were counted out to the delighted painter. 
" O diabolus ! " cried he, " Now it is that I begin to believe in 
thee 1 Don't talk about merit," he cried ; " talk about fortune. 



54 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

Tell me not about heroes for the future — tell me of zeroes,^'* 
And down went twenty napoleons more upon the o. 

The Devil was certainly in the ball : round it twirled, and 
dropped into zero as naturally as a duck pops its head into a 
pond. Our friend received five hundred pounds for his stake ; 
and the croupiers and lookers-on began to stare at him. 

There were twelve thousand pounds on the table. Suffice 
it to say, that Simon won half, and retired from the Palais 
Royal with a thick bundle of bank-notes crammed into his dirty 
three-cornered hat. He had been but half an hour in the place, 
and he had won the revenues of a prince for half a year ! 

Gambouge, as soon as he felt that he was a capitalist, and 
that he had a stake in the country, discovered that he was an 
altered man. He repented of his foul deed, and his base pur- 
loining of the restaurateur's plate. " O honesty ! " he cried, 
" how unworthy is an action like this of a man" who has a prop- 
erty like mine I " So he went back to the pawnbroker with 
the gloomiest face imaginable. " My friend," said he, " I have 
forgotten my family and my religion. Here is thy money. In 
the name of heaven, restore me the plate which I have wrong- 
fully sold thee ! " • _ 

But the pawnbroker grinned, and said, " Nay, Mr. Gam- 
bouge, I will sell that plate for a thousand francs to you, or I 
never will sell it at all." 

"Well," cried Gambouge, " thou art an inexorable ruffian, 
Troisboules ; but I will give thee all I am worth." And here 
he produced a billet of five hundred francs. " Look," said he, 
" this money is all I own ; it is the payment of two years' lodg- 
ing. To raise it, I have toiled for many months ; and, failing, 
I have been a criminal. O heaven ! I stole that plate that I might 
pay my debt, and keep my dear wife from wandering houseless. 
But I cannot bear this load of ignominy — I cannot suffer the 
thought of this crime. I will go to the person to whom I did 
wrong. I will starve, I will confess j but I will, I ivill do 
right ! " 

The broker was alarmed. " Give me thy note," he cried ; 
" here is the plate." 

" Give me an acquittal first," cried Simon, almost broken- 
hearted ; " sign me a paper, and the money is yours." So 
Troisboules wrote according to Gambouge's dictation : " Re- 
ceived, for thirteen ounces of plate, twenty pounds." 

" Monster of iniquity ! " cried the painter, " fiend of wicked- 
ness ! thou art caught in thine own snares. Hast thou not 
sold me five pounds' worth of plate for twenty ? Have I it not 



THE PAINTER'S BARGAIN. 65 

in my pocket ? Art thou not a convicted dealer in stolen goods ? 
Yield, scoundrel, yield thy money, or I will bring thee to jus- 
tice ! " 

The frightened pawnbroker bullied and battled for a while ; 
but he gave up his money at last, and the dispute ended. Thus 
it will be seen that Diabolus had rather a hard bargain in the 
wily Gambouge. He had taken a victim prisoner, but he had 
assuredly caught a Tartar. Simon now returned home, and, 
to do him justice, paid the bill for dinner, and restored the 
plate. 

%: ^ * * # 

And now I may add (and the reader should ponder upon 
this, as a profound picture of human life,) that Gambouge, 
since he had grown rich, grew likewise abundantly moral. He 
was a most exemplary father. He fed the poor, and was loved 
by them. He scorned a base action. And I have no doubt 
that Mr. Thurtell, or the late lamented Mr. Greenacre, in similar 
circumstances, would have acted like the worthy Simon Gam- 
bouge. 

There was but one blot upon his character — he hated 
Mrs. Gam. worse than ever. As he grew more benevolent, she 
grew more virulent : when he went to plays, she went to Bible 
societies, and vice versa : in fact, she led him such a life as 
Xantippe led Socrates, or as a dog leads* a cat in the same 
kitchen. With all his fortune — for, as may be supposed, Simon 
prospered in all worldly things — he was the most miserable dog 
in the whole city of Paris. Only in the point of drinking did 
he and Mrs. Simon agree ; and for many years, and during a 
considerable number of hours in each day, he thus dissipated, 
partially, his domestic chagrin. O philosophy ! we may talk 
of thee : but, except at the bottom of the wine-cup, where thou 
liest like truth in a well, where shall we find thee 1 

He lived so long, and in his worldly matters prospered so 
much, there was so little sign of devilment in the accomplishment 
of his wishes, and the increase of his prosperity, that Simon, at 
the end of six years, began to doubt whether he had made any 
such bargain at all, as that which we have described at the 
commencement of this history. He had grown, as we said, 
very pious and moral. He went regularly to mass, and had a 
confessor into the bargain. He resolved, therefore, to consult 
that reverend gentleman, and to lay before him the whole 
matter. 

" I am inclined to think, holy sir," said Gambouge, after he 
had concluded his history, and shown bow, in some miraculous 



66 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

way, all his desires were accomplished, " that, after all, this 
demon was no other than the creation of my own brain, heated 
by the effects of that bottle of wine, the cause of my crime and 
my prosperity." 

The confessor agreed with him, and they walked out of 
church confortably together, and entered afterwards a cafe^ 
where they sat down to refresh themselves after the fatigues of 
their devotion. 

A respectable old gentleman, with a number of orders at his 
button-hole, presently entered the room, and sauntered up to 
the marble table, before which reposed Simon and his clerical 
friend. "Excuse me, gentlemen," he said, as he took a place 
opposite them, and began reading the papers of the day. 

" Bah ! " said he, at last, — " sont-ils grands ces journaux 
Anglais ? Look, sir," he said, handing over an immense sheet 
of The Times to Mr. Gambouge, " was ever anything so mon- 
strous ? " 

Gambouge smiled politely, and examined the proffered page. 
" It is enormous," he said ; " but I do not read English." 

" Nay," said the man with the orders, " look closer at it, 
Signor Gambouge ; it is astonishing how easy the language is." 

Wondering, Simon took the sheet of paper. He turned pale 
as he looked at it, and began to curse the ices and the waiter. 
" Come, M. rAbbe,"' he said ; " the heat and glare of this place 

are intolerable." 

* # * * # 

The stranger rose with them. " Au plaisir de vous revoir, 
mon cher monsieur," said he ; "I do not mind speaking before 
the Abbe here, who will be my very good friend one of these 
days ; but I thought it necessary to refresh your memory, con- 
cerning our little business transaction six years since ; and could 
not exactly talk of it at churchy as you may fancy." 

Simon Gambouge had seen, in the double-sheeted Times^ 
the paper signed by himself, which the little Devil had pulled 

out of his fob. 

* # * # # 

There was no doubt on the subject ; and Simon, who had 
but a year to live, grew more pious, and more careful than ever. 
He had consultations with all the doctors of the Sorbonne and 
all the lawyers of the Palais. But his magnificence grew as 
wearisome to him as his poverty had been before ; and not one 
of the doctors whom he consulted could give him a pennyworth 
of consolation. 

Then he grew outrageous in his demands upon the Devil, 



THE PAINTER'S BARGAIN. 67 

and put him to all sorts of absurd and ridiculous tasks ; but 
they were all punctually performed, until Simon could invent no 
news ones, and the Devil sat all day with his hands in his 
pockets doing nothing. 

One day, Simon's confessor came bounding into the room, 
with the greatest glee. " My friend," said he, " I have it ! 
Eureka ! — I have found it. Send the Pope a hundred thousand 
crowns, build a new Jesuit college at Rome, give a hundred 
gold candlesticks to St. Peter's ; and tell his Holiness you will 
double all, if he will give you absolution ! " 

Gambouge caught at the notion, and hurried off a courier to 
Rome vefifre a terre. His Holiness agreed to the request of 
the petition, and sent him an absolution, written out with his 
own fist, and all in due form. 

"Now," said he, "foul fiend, I defy you ! arise, Diabolus ! 
your contract is not worth a jot : the Pope has absolved me, 
and I am safe on the road to salvation." In a fervor of grati- 
tude he clasped the hand of his confessor, and embraced him : 
tears of joy ran down the cheeks of these good men. 

They heard an inordinate roar of laughter, and there was 
Diabolus sitting opposite to them, holding his sides, and lashing 
his tail about, as if he would have gone mad with glee. 

" Why," said he, "what nonsense is this ! do you suppose 
I care about thatV and he tossed the Pope's missive into a 
corner. " M. I'Abbe knows," he said, bowing and grimning, 
" that though the Pope's paper may pass current here^ it is not 
worth twopence in our country. What do I care about the Pope's 
absolution 1 You might just as well be absolved by your under 
butler." 

" Egad," said the Abbe, " the rogue is right — I quite forgot 
the fact, which he points out clearly enough." 

" No, no, Gambouge," continued Diabolus, with horrid 
familiarity, " go thy ways, old fellow, that cock won^t fights And 
he retired up the chimney, chuckling at his wit and his triumph. 
Gambouge heard his tail scuttling all the way up, as if he had 
been a sweeper by profession. 

Simon was left in that condition of grief in which, according 
to the newspapers, cities and nations are found when a murder 
is committed, or a lord ill of the gout — a situation, we say, 
more easy to imagine than to describe. 

To add to his woes, Mrs. Gambouge, who was now first 
made acquainted with his compact, and its probable consequen- 
ces, raised such a storm about his ears, as made him wish 
almost that his seven years were expired. She screamed, she 



68 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

scolded, she swore, she wept, she went into such fits of hysterics, 
that poor Gambouge, who had completely knocked under to 
her, was worn out of his life. He was allowed no rest, night or 
day : he moped about his fine house, solitary and wretched, and 
cursed his stars that he ever had married the butcher's daughter. 

It wanted six months of the time. 

A sudden and desperate resolution seemed all at once to 
have taken possession of Simon Gambouge. He called his 
family and his friends together — he gave one of the greatest 
feasts that ever was known in the city of Paris — he gayly pre- 
sided at one end of his table, while Mrs. Gam., splendidly 
arrayed, gave herself airs at the other extremity. 

After dinner, using the customary formula, he called upon 
Diabolus to appear. The old ladies screamed, and hoped he 
would not appear naked ; the young ones tittered, and longed 
to see the monster : everybody was pale with expectation and 
affright. 

A very quiet, gentlemanly man, neatly dressed in black, 
made his appearance, to the surprise of all present, and bowed 
all round to the company. " I will not show my credentials ^^^ 
he said, blushing, and pointing to his hoofs, which were cleverly 
hidden by his pumps and shoe-buckles, " unless the ladies 
absolutely wish it ; but I am the person you want, Mr. Gam- 
bouge ; pray tell me what is your will." 

"You know," said that gentleman, in a stately and deter- 
mined voice, "that you are bound to me, according to our 
agreement, for six months to come." 

" I am," replied the new comer. 

" You are to do all that I ask, whatsoever it may be, or 
you forfeit the bond which I gave you ? " 

" It is true." 

" You declare this before the present company ? " 

" Upon my honor, as a gentleman," said Diabolus, bowing, 
and laying his hand upon his waistcoat. 

A whisper of applause ran round the room: all were 
charmed with the bland manners of the fascinating stranger. 

" My love," continued Gambouge, mildly addressing his 
lady, " will you be so polite as to step this way ? You know I 
must go soon, and I am anxious, before this noble company, 
to make a provision for one who, in sickness as in health, 
in poverty as in riches, has been my truest and fondest com- 
panion." 

Gambouge mopped his eyes with his handkerchief — all the 
company did likewise. Diabolus sobbed audibly, and Mrs. 



THE PAINTER'S BARGAIN. 69 

Gambouge sidled up to her husband's side, and took him ten- 
derly by the hand. " Simon ! " said she, " is it true ? and do 
you really love your Griskinissa ?" 

Simon continued solemnly : " Come hither, Diabolus ; you 
are bound to obey me in all things for the six months during 
which our contract has to run ; take, then, Griskinissa Gam- 
bouge, live alone with her for half a year, never leave her from 
morning till night, obey all her caprices, follow all her whims, 
and listen to all the abuse which falls from her infernal tongue. 
Do this, and I ask no more of you ; I will deliver myself up at 
the appointed time." 

Not Lord G when flogged by Lord B in the House, 

— not Mr. Cartlitch, of Astley's Amphitheatre, in his most 
pathetic passages, could look more crest-fallen, and howl more 
hideously, than Diabolus did now. "Take another year, Gam- 
bouge," screamed he ; " two more — ten more — a century ; 
roast me on Lawrence's gridiron, boil me in holy water, but 
don't ask that : don't, don't bid me live with Mrs. Gam- 
bouge ! " 

Simon smiled sternly. " I have said it," he cried ; " do 
this, or our contract is at an end." 

The Devil, at this, grinned so ^horribly that every drop of 
beer in the house turned sour : he gnashed his teeth so fright- 
fully that every person in the company wellnigh fainted with 
the colic. He slapped down the great parchment upon the 
floor, trampled upon it madly, and lashed it with his hoofs and 
his tail : at last, spreading out a mighty pair of wings as wide 
as from here to Regent Street, he slapped Gambouge with his 
tail over one eye, and vanished, abruptly, through the key- 
hole. 

***** 

Gambouge screamed with pain and started up. " You 
drunken, lazy scoundrel ! " cried a shrill and well-known voice, 
" you have been asleep these two hours : " and here he received 
another terrible box on the ear. 

It was too true, he had fallen asleep at his work ; and the 
beautiful vision had been dispelled by the thumps of the tipsy 
Griskinissa. Nothing remained to corroborate his story, except 
the bladder of lake, and this was spirited all over his waistcoat 
and breeches. 

" I wish," said the poor fellow, rubbing his tingling cheeks, 
" that dreams were true ; " and he went to work again at his 
portrait. 



70 



THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK, 



My last accounts of Gambouge are, that he has left the 
arts, and is footman in a small family. Mrs. Gam. takes in 
washing ; and it is said that her continual dealings with soap- 
suds and hot water have been the only things in life which 
have kept her from spontaneous combustion. 



CARTOUCHE, 



I HAVE been much interested with an account of the 
exploits of Monsieur Louis Dominic Cartouche, and as New- 
gate and the highways are so much the fashion with us in 
England, we may be allowed to look abroad for histories of a 
similar tendency. It is pleasant to find that virtue is cosmo- 
polite, and may exist among wooden-shoed Papists as well as 
honest Church-of-England men. 

Louis Dominic was born in a quarter of Paris called the 
Courtille, says the historian whose work lies before me ; — born 
in the Courtille, and in the year 1693. Another biographer 
asserts that he was born two years later, and in the Marais ; — 
of respectable parents, of course. Think of the talent that our 
two countries produced about this time : Marlborough, Villars, 
Mandrin, Turpin, Boileau, Dryden, Swift, Addison, Moliere, 
Racine, Jack Sheppard, and Louis Cartouche, — all famous 
within the same twenty years, and fighting, writing, robbing a 
Venvi ! 

Well, Marlborough was no chicken when he began to show 
his genius ; Swift was but a dull, idle, college lad ; but if we 
read the histories of some other great men mentioned in the 
above list — I mean the thieves, especially — we shall find that 
they all commenced very early; they showed a passion for their 
art, as little Raphael did, or little Mozart ; and the history of 
Cartouche's knaveries begins almost with his breeches. 

Dominic's parents sent him to school at the college of 
Clermont (now Louis le Grand) ; and although it lias never 
been discovered that the Jesuits, who directed that seminary, 
advanced him much in classical . or theological knowledge, 
Cartouche, in revenge, showed, by repeated instances, his own 
natural bent and genius, which no difficulties were strong 
enough to overcome. His first great action on record, although 
not successful in the end, and tinctured with the innocence of 



CARTOUCHE. 



71 



youth, is yet highly creditable to him. He made a general 
swoop of a hundred and twenty nightcaps belonging to his 
companions, and disposed of them to his satisfaction ; but as 
it was discovered that of all the youths in the college of Cler- 
mont, he only was the possessor of a cap to sleep in, suspicion 
(which, alas, was confirmed) immediately fell upon him : and 
by this little piece of youthful naivete, a scheme, prettily con- 
ceived and smartly performed, was rendered naught. 

Cartouche had a wonderful love for good eating, and 
put all the apple-women and cooks, who came to supply the 
students, under contribution. Not always, however, desirous 
of robbing these, he used to deal with them, occasionally, on 
honest principles of barter ; that is, whenever he could get 
hold of his school-fellows' knives, books, rulers, or playthings, 
which he used fairly to exchange for tarts and gingerbread. 

It seemed as if the presiding genius of evil was determined 
to patronize this young man ; for before he had been long at 
college, and soon after he had, with the greatest difficulty, 
escaped from the nightcap scrape, an opportunity occurred by 
which he was enabled to gratify both his propensities at once, 
and not only to steal, but to steal sweetmeats. It happened 
that the principal of the college received some pots of Nar- 
bonne honey, which came under the eyes of Cartouche, and in 
which that young gentleman, as soon as ever he saw them, 
determined to put his fingers. The president of the college 
put aside his honey-pots in an apartment within his own ; to 
which, except by the one door which led into the room, which 
his reverence usually occupied, there was no outlet. There 
was no chimney in the room ; and the windows looked into the 
court, where there was a porter at night, and where crowds 
passed by day. What was Cartouche to do 1 — have the honey 
he must. 

Over this chamber, which contained what his soul longed 
after, and over the president's rooms, there ran a set of unoc- 
cupied garrets, into which the dexterous Cartouche penetrated. 
These were divided from the rooms below, according to the 
fashion of those days, by a set of large beams, which reached 
across the whole building, and across which rude planks were 
laid, which formed the ceiling of the lower storey and the floor 
of the upper. Some of these planks did young Cartouche 
remove ; and having descended by means of a rope, tied a 
couple of others to the neck of the honey-pots, climbed back 
again, and drew up his prey in safety. He then cunningly 
fixQd the planks again in their old. places, and retired to gorge 



7 2 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

himself upon his booty. And, now, se^ the punishment of 
avarice ! Everybody knows that the brethren of the order of 
Jesus are bound by a vow to have no more than a certain small 
sum of money in their possession. The principal of the college 
of Clermont had amassed a larger sum, in defiance of this rule : 
and where do you think the old gentleman had hidden it ? In 
the honey-pots ! As Cartouche dug his spoon into one of 
them, he brought out, besides a quantity of golden honey, a 
couple of golden louis, which, with ninety-eight more of their 
fellows, were comfortably hidden in the pots. Little Dominic, 
who, before, had cut rather a poor figure among his fellow- 
students, now appeared in as fine clothes as any of them could 
boast of ; and when asked by his parents, on going home, how he 
came by them, said that a young nobleman of his school-fellows 
had taken a violent fancy to him, and made him a piesent of a 
couple of his suits. Cartouche the elder, good man, went to 
thank the young nobleman ; but none such could be found, 
and young Cartouche disdained to give any explanation of his 
manner of gaining the money. 

Here, again, we have to regret and remark the inadvertence 
of youth. Cartouche lost a hundred louis — for what ? For a 
pot of honey not worth a couple of shillings. Had he fished 
out the pieces, and replaced the pots and the honey, he might 
have been safe, and a respectable citizen all his life after. The 
principal would not have dared to confess the loss of his money, 
and did not, openly ; but he vowed vengeance against the 
stealer of his sweetmeat, and a rigid search was made. Car- 
touche, as usual, was fixed upon ; and in the tick of his bed, 
lo ! there were found a couple of empty honey-pots ! From 
this scrape there is no knowing how he would have escaped, 
had not the president himself been a little anxious to hush the 
matter up ; and accordingly, young Cartouche was made to 
disgorge the residue of his ill-gotten gold pieces, old Cartouche 
made up the deficiency, and his son was allowed to remain 
unpunished — until the next time. 

This, you may fancy, was not very long in coming ; and though 
history has not made us acquainted with the exact crime which 
Louis Dominic next committed, it must have been a Ferious 
one ; for Cartouche, who had borne philosophically all the 
whippings and punishments which were administered to him at 
college, did not dare to face that one which his indignant father 
had in pickle for him. As he was coming home from school, 
on the first day after his crime, when he received permission 
to go abroad, one of his brothers, who was on the look-out for 



CARTOUCHE. 73 

him, met him at a short distance from home, and told him what 
was in preparation ; which so frightened this young thief, that 
he decUned returning home altogether, and set out upon the 
wide world to shift for himself as he could. 

Undoubted as his genius was, he had not arrived at the full 
exercise of it, and his gains were by no means equal to his ap- 
petite. In whatever professions he tried, — whether he joined 
the gypsies, which he did, — whether he picked pockets on the 
Pont Neuf, which occupation history attributes to him, — poor 
Cartouche was always hungry. Hungry and ragged, he wan- 
dered from one place and profession to another, and regretted 
the honey-pots at Clermont, and the comfortable soup and 
bouilli at home. 

Cartouche had an uncle, a kind man, who was a merchant, 
and had dealings at Rouen. One day, walking on the quays 
of that city, this gentleman saw a very miserable, dirty, starv- 
ing lad, who had just made a pounce upon some bones and 
turnip-peelings, that had been flung out on the quay, and was 
eating them as greedily as if they had been turkeys and truffles. 
The worthy man examined the lad a little closer. O heavens ! 
it was their runaway prodigal — it was little Louis Dominic ! The 
merchant was touched by his case ; and forgetting the night- 
caps, the honey-pots, and the rags and dirt of little Louis, took 
him to his arms, and kissed and hugged him with the tenderest 
affection. Louis kissed and hugged too, and blubbered a great 
deal : he was very repentant, as a man often is when he is 
hungry ; and he went home with his uncle, and his jDcace was 
made ; and his mother got him new clothes, and filled his belly, 
and for a while Louis was as good a son as might be. 

But why attempt to baulk the progress of genius t Louis's 
was not to be kept down. He was sixteen years of age by this 
time — a smart, lively young fellow, and, what is more, des- 
perately enamored of a lovely washerwoman. To be success- 
ful in your love, as Louis knew, you must have something more 
than mere flames and sentiment ; — a washer, or any other woman, 
cannot live upon sighs only ; but must have new gowns and 
caps, and a necklace every now and then, and a few handker- 
chiefs and silk stockings, and a treat into the country or to the 
play. Now, how are all these things to be had without money? 
Cartouche saw at once that it was impossible ; and as his father 
would give him none, he was obliged to look for it elsewhere. 
He took to his old courses, and lifted a purse here, and a watch 
there ; and found, moreover, an accommodating gentleman, 
who took the wares off his hands. 



^4 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

This gentleman introduced him into a* very select and 
agreeable society, in which Cartouche's merit began speedily to 
be recognized, and in which he learnt how pleasant it is in life 
to have friends to assist one, and how much may be done by a 
proper division of labor. M. Cartouche, in fact, formed part 
of a regular company or gang of gentlemen, who were asso- 
ciated together for the purpose of making war on the public 
and the law. 

Cartouche had a lovely young sister, who was to be mar- 
ried to a rich young gentleman from the provinces. As is the 
fashion in France, the parents had arranged the match among 
themselves ; and the young people had never met until just be- 
fore the time appointed for the marriage, when the bridegroom 
came up to Paris with his title-deeds, and settlements, and 
money. Now there can hardly be found in history a finer in- 
stance of devotion than Cartouche now exhibited. He w^ent 
to his captain, explained the matter to him, and actually, for 
the good of his country, as it were (the thieves might be called 
his country), sacrificed his sister's husband's property. In- 
formations were taken, the house of the bridegroom was recon- 
noitred, and, one night. Cartouche, in company with some 
chosen friends, made his first visit to the house of his brother- 
in-law. All the people were gone to bed ; and, doubtless, for 
fear of disturbing the porter. Cartouche and his companions 
spared him the trouble of opening the door, by ascending quietly 
at the window. They arrived at the room where the bridegroom 
kept his great chest, and set industriously to work, filing and 
picking the locks which defended the treasure. 

The bridegroom slept in the next room ; but however 
tenderly Cartouche and his workmen handled their tools, from 
fear of disturbing his slumbers, their benevolent design was 
disappointed, for awaken him they did ; and quietly slipping 
out of bed, he came to a place where he had a complete view 
of all that was going on. He did not cry out, or frighten him- 
self sillily ; but, on the contrary, contented himself with watch- 
ing the countenances of the robbers, so that he might recog- 
nize them on another occasion ; and, though an avaricious man, 
he did not feel the slightest anxiety about his money-chest ; for 
the fact is, he had removed all the cash and papers the day 
before. 

As soon, however, as they had broken all the locks, and 
found the nothing which lay at the bottom of the chest, he 
shouted with such a loud voice, " Here, Thomas ! — John ! — 
officer! — keep the gate, fire at the rascals ! " that they, inconti- 



CARTOUCHE. 75 

ently taking fright, skipped nimbly out of window, and left the 
house free. 

Cartouche, after this, did not care to meet his brother-in- 
law, but eschewed all those occasions on which the latter was 
to be present at his father's house. The evening before the 
marriage came ; and then his father insisted upon his appear- 
ance among the other relatives of the bride's and bridegroom's 
families, who were all to assemble and make merry. Cartouche 
was obligedto yield ; and brought with him one or two of his 
companions, who had been, by the way, present in the affair of 
the empty money-boxes ; and though he never fancied that 
there was any danger in meeting his brother-in-law, for he had 
no idea that he had been seen on the night of the attack, with 
a natural modesty, which did him really credit, he kept out of 
the young bridegroom's sight as much as he could, and showed 
no desire to be presented to him. At supper, however, as he 
was sneaking modestly down to a side table, his father shouted 
after him, " Ho, Dominic, come hither, and sit opposite to your 
brother-in-law : " which Dominic did, his friends following. 
The bridegroom pledged him very gracefully in a bumper ; and 
was in the act of making him a pretty speech, on the honor of 
an alliance with such a family, and on the pleasures of brother- 
in-lawship in general, when, looking in his face — ye gods ! he 
saw the very man who had been filing at his money-chest a few 
nights ago ! By his side, too, sat a couple more of the gang. 
The poor fellow turned deadly pale and sick, and, setting his 
glass down, ran quickly out of the room, for he thought he was 
in company of a whole gang of robbers. And when he got 
home, he wrote a letter to the elder Cartouche, humbly declin- 
ing any connection with his famiiy. 

Cartouche the elder, of course, angrily asked the reason of 
such an abrupt dissolution of the engagement ; and then, much 
to his horror, heard of his eldest son's doings. " You would 
not have me marry into such a family ? " said the ex-bride- 
groom. And old Cartouche, an honest old citizen, confessed, 
with a heavy heart, that he would not. What was he to do with 
the lad ? He did not like to ask for a lettre de cachet^ and shut 
him up in the Bastile. He determined to give him a year's dis- 
cipline at the monastery of St. Lazare. 

But how to catch the young gentleman t Old Cartouche 
knew that, were he to tell his son of the scheme, the latter 
would never obey, and, therefore, he determined to be very 
cunning. He told Dominic that he was about to make a heavy 
bargain with the fathers, and should require a witness \ so they 



THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 



1 



76 

stepped into a carriage together, and drove unsuspectingly to 
the Rue St. Denis. But, when they arrived near the convent, 
Cartouche saw several ominous figures gathering round the 
coach, and felt that his doom was sealed. However, he made 
as if he knew nothing of the conspiracy ; and the carriage drew 
up, and his father descended, and, bidding him wait for a 
minute in the coach, promised to return to him. Cartouche 
looked out ; on the other side of the way half a dozen men were 
posted, evidently with the intention of arresting him. 

Cartouche now performed a great and celebrated stroke of 
genius, which, if he had not been professionally employed in 
the morning, he never could have executed. He had in his 
pocket a piece of linen, which he had laid hold of at the door 
of some shop, and from which he quickly tore three suitable 
stripes. One he tied round his head, after the fashion of a 
nightcap ; a second round his waist, like an apron ; and with 
the third he covered his hat, a round one, with a large brim. 
His coat and his periwig he left behind him in the carriage ; 
and when he stepped out from it (which he did without asking 
the coachman to let down the steps), he bore exactly the ap- 
pearance of a cook's boy carrying a dish ; and with this he 
slipped through the exempts quite unsuspected, and bade adieu 
to the Lazarists and his honest father, who came out speedily 
to seek him, and was not a little annoyed to find only his coat 
and wig. 

With that coat and wig. Cartouche left home, father, friends, 
conscience, remorse, society, behind him. He discovered (like 
a great number of other philosophers and poets, when they 
have committed rascally actions) that the world was all going 
wrong, and he quarrelled with it outright. One of the first 
stories told of the illustrious Cartouche, when he became pro- 
fessionally and openly a robber, redounds highly to his credit. 
and shows that he knew how to take advantage of the occasion 
and how much he had improved in the course of a very few 
years' experience. His courage and ingenuity were vastly 
admired by his friends ;'S0 much so, that one day, the captain 
of the band thought fit to compliment him, and vowed that 
when he (the captain) died, Cartouche should infallibly be 
called to the command-in-chief. This conversation, so flat- 
tering to Cartouche, was carried on between the two gentlemen 
as they were walking, one night, on the quays by the side of 
the Seine. Cartouche, when the captain made the last remark, 
blushingly protested against it, and pleaded his extreme youth 
as a reason why his comrades could never put entire trust in 



CARTOUCHE. 77 

in him. " Psha, man ! " said the captain, " thy youth is in thy 
favor ; thou wilt Uve only the Ioniser to lead thy troops to 
victory. As for strength, bravery, and cunning, wert thou as 
old as Methuselah, thou couldst not be better provided than 
thou art now, at eighteen." What was the reply of Monsieur 
Cartouche 1 He answered, not by words, but by actions. 
Drawing his knife from his girdle, he instantly dug into the 
captain's left side, as near his heart as possible ; and then, 
seizing that imprudent commander, precipitated him violently 
into the water of the Seine, to keep company with the gudgeons 
and river-gods. When he returned to the band, and recounted 
how the captain had basely attempted to assassinate him, and 
how he, on the contrary, had, by exertion of superior skill, 
overcome the captain, not one of the society believed a word of 
his history ; but they elected him captain forthwith. I think 
his excellency Don Rafael Maroto, the pacificator of Spain, is 
an amiable character, for whom history has not been written in 
vain. 

Being arrived at this exalted position, there is no end of the 
feats which Cartouche performed ; and his band reached to 
such a pitch of glory, that if there had been a hundred thou- 
sand, instead of a hundred of them, who knows but that a new 
and popular dynasty might not have been founded, and " Louis 
Dominic, premier Empereur des Frangais," might have per- 
formed innumerable glorious actions, and fixed himself in the 
hearts of his people, just as other monarchs have done, a 
hundred years after Cartouche's death. 

A story similar to the above, and equally moral, is that of 
Cartouche, who, in company with two other gentlemen, robbed 
the coche, or packet-boat, from Melun, where they took a good 
quantity of booty, — making the passengers lie down on the 
decks, and rifling them at leisure. " This money will be but 
very little among three," whispered Cartouche to his neighbor, 
as the three conquerors were making merry over their gains ; 
" if you were but to pull the trigger of your pistol in the neigh- 
borhood of your comrade's ear, perhaps it might go off, and 
then there would be but two of us to share." Strangely enough, 
as Cartouche said, the pistol did go off, and No. 3 perished. 
"Give him another ball," said Cartouche; and another was 
fired into him. But no sooner had Cartouche's comrade dis- 
charged both his pistols, than Cartouche himself, seized with a 
furious indignation, drew his: "Learn, monster," cried he, 
" not to be so greedy of gold, and perish, the victim of thy dis- 
loycUy and avarice ! " So Cartouche slew the second robber; 



78 



THE PARIS SKETCH BOOR. 



and there is no man in Europe who can say that the latter did 
not merit well his punishment. 

I could fill volumes, and not mere sheets of paper, with 
tales of the triumphs of Cartouche and his band ; how he robbed 

the Countess of O , going to Dijon, in her coach, and how 

the Countess fell in love with him, and was faithful to him ever 
after; how, when the lieutenant of police offered a reward ot 
a hundred pistoles to any man who would bring Cartouche 
before him, a noble Marquess, in a coach and six, drove up to 
the hotel of the police ; and the noble Marquess, desiring to 
see Monsieur de la Reynie, on matters of the highest moment 
alone, the latter introduced him into his private cabinet ; and 
how, when there, the Marquess drew from his pocket a long, 
curiously shaped dagger : " Look at this. Monsieur de la Rey- 
nie," said he ; "this dagger is poisoned ! " 

" Is it possible ? " said M. de la Reynie. 

" A prick of it would do for any man," said the Marquess. 

" You don't say so ! " said M. de la Reynie. 

"I do, though; and, what is more," says the Marquess, in 
a terrible voice, " if you do not instantly lay yourself flat on 
the ground, with your face towards it, and your hands crossed 
over your back, or if you make the slightest noise or cry, I will 
stick this poisoned dagger between your ribs, as sure as my 
name is Cartouche ! " 

At the sound of this dreadful name, M. de la Reynie sunk 
incontinently down on his stomach, and submitted to be care- 
fully gagged and corded ; after which Monsieur Cartouche laid 
his hands upon all the money which was kept in the lieutenant's 
cabinet. Alas ! and alas ! many a stout bailiff, and many an 
honest fellow of a spy, went, for that day, without his pay and 
his victuals. 

There is a story that Cartouche once took the diligence to 
Lille, and found in it a certain Abbe Potter, who was full of 
indignation against this monster of a Cartouche, and said that 
when he went back to Paris, which he proposed to do in about 
a fortnight, he should give the lieutenant of police some in- 
formation, which would infallibly lead to the scoundrel's capture. 
But poor Potter was disappointed in his designs ; for, before he 
could fulfil them, he was made the victim of Cartouche's cruelty. 

A letter came to the lieutenant of police, to state that Car- 
touche had travelled to Lille, in company with the Abbe de 
Potter, of that town ; that, on the reverend gentleman's return 
towards , Paris, Cartouche had waylaid him, murdered him, ta- 
ken his papers, and would come to Paris himself, bearing the 



CARTOUCHE. 



79 



name and clothes of the unfortunate Abbe, by the Lille coach, 
on such a day. The Lille coach arrived, was surrounded by 
police agents ; the monster Cartouche was there, sure enough, 
in the Abbe's guise. He was seized, bound, flung into prison, 
brought out to be examined, and, on examination, found to be 
no other than the Abbe Potter himself ! It is pleasant to read 
thus of the relaxations of great men, and find them condescend- 
ing to joke like the meanest of us. 

Another diligence adventure is recounted of the famous 
Cartouche. It happened that he met, in the coach, a young 
and lovely lady, clad in widow's weeds, and bound to Paris, 
with a couple of servants. The poor thing was the widow of a 
rich old gentleman of Marseilles, and was going to the capital 
to arrange with her lawyers, and to settle her husband's will. 
The Count de Grinche (for so her fellow-passenger was called) 
was quite as candid as the pretty widow had been, and stated 
that he was a captain in the regiment of Nivernois ; that he 
was going to Paris to buy a colonelcy, which his relatives, the 
Duke de Bouillon, the Prince de Montmorency, the Comman- 
deur de la Tremoille, with all their interest at court, could not 
fail to procure for him. To be short, in the course of the four 
days' journey, the Count Louis Dominic de Grinche played his 
cards so well, that the poor little widow half forgot her late 
husband ; and her eyes glistened with tears as the Count kissed 
her hand at parting — at parting, he hoped, only for a few hours. 

Day and night the insinuating Count followed her ; and 
when, at the end of a fortnight, and in the midst of a tete-a-tete 
he plunged, one morning, suddenly on his knees, and said, 
"Leonora, do you love me .'*" the poor thing heaved the gen- 
tlest, tenderest, sweetest sigh in the world ; and sinking her 
blushing head on his shoulder, whispered, '' Oh, Dominic, je 
t'aime ! Ah ! " said she, " how noble is it of my Dominic to 
take me with the little I have, and he so rich a nobleman ! " 
The fact is, the old Baron's titles and estates had passed away 
to his nephews ; his dowager was only left with three hundred 
thousand livres, in rentes stir Petat, — a handsome sum, but 
nothing to compare to the rent-roll of Count Dominic, 
Count de la Grinche, Seigneur de la Haute Pigre, Baron de la 
Bigorne ; he had estates and wealth which might authorize him 
to aspire to the hand of a duchess, at least. 

The unfortunate widow never for a moment suspected the 
cruel trick that was about to be played on her ; and, at the 
request of her affianced husband, sold out her money, and 
realized it in gold, to be made over to him on the day when 



8o THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK, 

the contract was to be signed. The day arrived ; and, accord- 
ing to the custom in France, the relations of both parties 
attended. The widow's relatives, though respectable, were not 
of the first nobility, being chiefly persons of Xh^ finance or the 
robe ; there was the president of the court of Arras, and his 
lady ; a farmer-general ; a judge of a court of Paris ; and other 
such grave and respectable people. As for Monsieur le Comte 
de la Grinche, he was not bound for names ; and, having the 
whole peerage to choose from, brought a host of Montmoren- 
cies, Crequis, De la Tours, and Guises at his back. His 
homme d'afif'aires brought his papers in a sack, and displayed 
the plans of his estates, and the titles of his glorious ancestry. 
The widow's lawyers had her money in sacks ; and between 
the gold on the one side, and the parchments on the other, lay 
the contract which was to make the widow's three hundred 
thousand francs the property of the Count de Grinche. The 
Count de la Grinche was just about to sign ; when the Marshal 
de Villars, stepping up to him, said, " Captain, do you know 
who the president of the court of Arras, yonder, is ? It is old 
Manasseh, the fence, of Brussels. I j3awned a gold watch to 
him, which I stole from Cadogan, when I was with Malbrook's 
army in Flanders." 

Here the Due de la Roche Guyon came forward, very much 
alarmed. " Run me through the body ! " said his Grace, " but 
the comptroller-general's lady, there, is no other than that old 

hag of a Margoton who keeps the " Here the Due de la 

Roche Guyon's voice fell. 

Cartouche smiled graciously, and walked up to the table. 
He took up one of the widow's fifteen thousand gold pieces ; — 
it was as pretty a bit of copper as you could wish to see. " My 
dear," said he, politely. " there is some mistake here, and this 
business had better stop." 

" Count ! " gasped the poor widow. 

" Count be hanged ! " answered the bridegroom sternly ; 
^'my name is Cartouche ! " 



ON SOME FRENCH FASHIONABLE NO VELS. 8 1 

ON SOME FRENCH FASHIONABLE NOVELS: 

WITH A PLEA FOR ROMANCES IN GENERAL. 

There is an old story of a Spanish court painter, who, 
being pressed for money, and having received a piece of 
damask, which he was to wear in a state procession, pawned 
the damask, and appeared, at the show, dressed out in some 
very fine sheets of paper, which he had painted so as exactly to 
resemble silk. Nay, his coat looked so much richer than the 
doublets of all the rest, that the Emperor Charles, in whose 
honor the procession was given, remarked the painter, and so 
his deceit was found out. 

I have often thought that, in respect of sham and real his- 
tories, a similar fact may be noticed ; the sham story appearing 
a great deal more agreeable, life-like, and natural than the true 
one : and all who, from laziness as well as principle, are in- 
clined to follow the easy and comfortable study of novels, may 
console themselves with the notion that they are studying 
matters quite as important as history, and that their favorite 
duodecimos are as instructive as the biggest quartos in the 
world. 

If then, ladies, the big-wigs begin to sneer at the course of 
our studies, calling our darling romances foolish, trivial, noxious 
to the mind, enervators of intellect, fathers of idleness, and 
what not, let us at once take a high ground, and say, — Go you 
to your own employments, and to such dull studies as you 
fancy ; go and bob for triangles, from the Pons Asinorum ; go 
enjoy your dull black draughts of metaphysics ; go fumble over 
history books, and dissert upon Herodotus and Livy ; our 
histories are, perhaps, as true as yours j our drink is the brisk 
sparkling champagne drink, from the presses of Colburn, 
Bentley and Co. ; our walks are over such sunshiny pleasure- 
grounds as Scott and Shakspeare have laid out for us ; and 
if our dwellings are castles in the air, we find them excessively 
splendid and commodious ; — be not you envious because you 
have no wings to fly thither. Let the big-wigs despise us ; 
such contempt of their neighbors i's the custom of all barbarous 
tribes ; — witness the learned Chinese : Tippoo Sultaun declared 
that there were not in all Europe ten thousand men : the Scla- 
vonic hordes, it is said, so entitled themselves from a word in 

6 



82 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

their jargon, which signifies " to speak ; " the ruffians imagined 
that they had a monopoly of this agreeable faculty, and that all 
other nations were dumb. 

Not so ; others may be deaf; but the novelist has a loud, 
eloquent, instructive language, though his enemies may despise 
or deny it ever so much. What is more, one could, perhaps, 
meet the stoutest historian on his own ground, and argue with 
him ; showing that sham histories were much truer than real 
histories ; which are, in fact, mere contemptible catalogues of 
names and places, that can have no moral effect upon the 
reader. 

As thus — 

Julius Caesar beat Pompey, at Pharsalia. 

The Duke of Marlborough beat Marshal Tallard, at Blenheim. 

The Constable of Bourbon beat Francis the First, at Pavia. 

And what have we here ? — so many names, simply. Suppose 
Pharsalia had been, at that mysterious period when names 
had been given, called Pavia ; and that Julius Caesar's family 
name had been John Churchill ; — the fact would have stood, 
in history, thus : — 

" Pompey ran away from the Duke of Marlborough at Pavia." 

And why not ? — we should have been just as wise. Or it might 
be stated, that — 

" The tenth legioln charged the French infantry at Blenheim ; and Csesar, writing 
home to his mamma, said, ' Madame, tout est perdu for s V honfieur .^ " 

What a contemptible science this is, then, about which 
quartos are written, and sixty-volumed Biographies Universelles, 
and Lardner's Cabinet Cyclopaedias, and the like ! the facts 
are nothing in it, the names everything ; and a gentleman 
might as well improve his mind by learning Walker's " Ga- 
zetteer," or getting by heart a fifty-years-old edition of the 
" Court Guide." 

Having thus disposed of the historians, let us come to the 
point in question — the novelists. 



On the title-page of these volumes the reader has, doubt- 
less, remarked, that among the pieces introduced, some are 
announced as "copies" and "compositions." Many of the 
histories have, accordingly, been neatly stolen from the collec- 
tions of French authors (and mutilated, according to the old 
saying, so that their owners should not know them) ; and, for 
compositions, we intend to favor the public with some studies 



ON SOME FRENCH FASHIONABLE NOVELS. 83 

of French modern works, that have not as yet, we believe, 
attracted the notice of the English public. 

Of such works there appear many hundreds yearly, as may 
be seen by the French catalogues ; but the writer has not so 
much to do with works political, philosophical, historical, met- 
aphysical, scientifical, theological, as with those for which he 
has' been putting forward a plea — novels, namely, on which 
he has expended a great deal of time and study. And passing 
from novels in general to French novels, let us confess, with 
much humiliation, that we borrow from these stories a great 
deal more knowledge of French society than from our own 
personal observation we ever can hope to gain : for let a 
gentleman who has dwelt two, four, or ten years in Paris (and 
has not gone thither for the purpose of making a book, when 
three weeks are sufficient) — let an English gentleman say, at 
the end of any given period, how much he knows of French 
society, how many French houses he has entered, and how 
many French friends he has made.-* — He has enjoyed, at the 
end of the year, say — 

At the English Ambassador's, so many soirees. 

At houses to which he has brought letters*, so many tea-parties. 

At Cafes, so many dinners. 

At French private houses, say three dinners, and very lucky too. 

He has, we say, seen an immense number of wax candles, 
cups of tea, glasses of orgeat, and French people, in best 
clothes, enjoying the same ; but intimacy there is none ; we 
see but the outsides of the people. Year by year we live in 
France, and grow gray, and see no more. We play ecarte with 
Monsieur de Trefle every night ; but what know we of the 
heart of the man — of the inward ways, thoughts, and customs 
of Trefle ? If we have good legs, and love the amusement, we 
dance with Countess Flicflac, Tuesdays and Thursdays, ever 
since the Peace ; and how far are we advanced in acquamtance 
with her since we first twirled her round a room .'* We know 
her velvet gown, and her diamonds (about three-fourths of them 
are sham, by the way) ; we know her smiles, and her simpers, 
and her rouge — but no more : she may turn into a kitchen 
wench at twelve on Thursday night, for aught we know ; her 
VGitiire, a pumpkin ; and her ge?is^ so many rats : but the real, 
rougeless, intime Flicflac, we know not. This privilege is 
granted to no Englishman : we may understand the French 
language as well as Monsieur de Levizac, but never can 
penetrate into Flicflac's confidence : our ways are not her ways; 
our manners of thinking, not hers : when we say a good thing, 



84 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

in the course of the night, we are wondrous lucky and pleased ; 
Flicflac will trill you off fifty in ten minutes, and wonder at the 
betise of the Briton, who has never a word to say. We are 
married, and have fourteen children, and would just as soon 
make love to the Pope of Rome as to any one but our own wife. 
If you do not make love to Flicflac, from the day after her 
marriage to the day she reaches sixty, she thinks you a fool. 
We won't play at ecarte with Trefle on Sunday nights ; and 
are seen walking, about one o'clock (accompanied by fourteen 
red-haired children, with fourteen gleaming prayer-books), 
away from the church. " Grand Dieu ! " cries Trefle, '' is that 
man mad ? He won't play at cards on a Sunday ; he goes to 
church on a Sunday : he has fourteen children ! " 

Was ever Frenchman known to do likewise ? Pass we on 
to our argument, which is, that with our English notions and 
moral and physical constitution, it is quite impossible that we 
should become intimate with our brisk neighbors ; and when 
such authors as Lady Morgan and Mrs. Trollope, having fre- 
quented a certain number of tea-parties in the French capital, 
begin to prattle about French manners and men, — with all 
respect for the talents of those ladies, we do believe their in- 
formation not to be worth a sixpence ; they speak to us, not of 
men, but of tea-parties. Tea-parties are the same all the world 
over ; with the exception that, with the French, there are more 
lights and prettier dresses ; and with us, a mighty deal more 
tea in the pot. 

There is, however, a cheap and delightful way of travelling, 
that a man may perform in his easy chair, without expense of 
passports or post-boys. On the wings of novel, from the next 
circulating library, he sends his imagination a-gadding, and 
gains acquaintance with people and manners whom he could 
not hope otherwise to know. Twopence a volume bears us 
whithersoever we will ; — back to Ivanhoe and Coeur de Lion, 
or to Waverley and the Young Pretender, along with Walter 
Scott ; up to the heights of fashion with the charming en- 
chanters of the silver-fork school ; or better still, to the snug 
inn-parlor, or the jovial tap-room, with Mr. Pickwick and his 
faithful Sancho Weller. I am sure that a man who, a hundred 
years hence, should sit down to write the history of our time, 
would do wrong to put that great contemporary history of 
" Pickwick " aside as a frivolous work. It contains true char- 
acter under false names ; and, like " Roderick Random," an 
inferior work, and, " Tom Jones " (one that is immeasurably 
superior), gives us a better idea of the state and ways of the 



ON SOME FRENCH FASHIONABLE NOVELS. 



85 



people than one could gather from any more pompous or 
authentic histories. 

We have, therefore, introduced into these volumes one or 
two short reviews of French fiction writers, of particular classes, 
whose Paris sketches may give the reader some notion of 
manners in that capital. If not original, at least the drawings 
are accurate ; for, as a Frenchman might have lived a thousand 
years in England, and never could have written "Pickwick," an 
Englishman cannot hope to give a good description of the 
inward thoughts and ways of his neighbors. 

To a person inclined to study these, in that light and amus- 
ing fashion in which the novelist treats them, let us recommend 
the works of a new writer. Monsieur de Bernard, who has 
painted actual manners, without those monstrous and terrible 
exaggerations in which late French writers have indulged ; and 
who, if he occasionally wounds the English sense of propriety 
(as what French man or woman alive will not ?) does so more 
by slighting than by outraging it, as, with their labored de- 
scriptions of all sorts of imaginable wickedness, some of his 
brethren of the press have done. M. de Bernard's characters 
are men and women of genteel society — rascals enough, but 
living in no state of convulsive crimes; and we follow him in 
his lively, malicious account of their manners, without risk of 
lighting upon any such horrors as Balzac or Dumas has pro- 
vided for us. 

Let us give an instance : — it is from the amusing novel 
called "Les Ailes d'Icare," and contains what is to us quite a 
new picture of a French fashionable rogue. The fashions will 
change in a few years, and the rogue, of course, with them. 
Let us catch this delightful fellow ere he flies. It is impossible 
to sketch the character in a more sparkling, gentlemanlike way 
than M. de Bernard's ; but such light things are very difficult 
of translation, and the sparkle sadly evaporates during the 
process of decanting. 

A FRENCH FASHIONABLE LETTER. 

" My dear Victor — It is six in the morning : I have just 
come from the English Ambassador's ball, and as my plans for 
the day do not admit of my sleeping, I write you a line ; for, at 
this moment, saturated as I am with the enchantments of a 
fairy night, all other pleasures would be too wearisome to keep 
me awake, except that of conversing with you. Indeed, were I 
pot to write to you now, when should I find the possibility of 



86 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

doing so ? Time flies here with such a frightful rapidity, my 
pleasures and my affairs whirl onwards together in such a tor- 
rentuous galopade, that I am compelled to seize occasion by 
the forelock ; for each moment has its imperious employ. Do 
not then accuse me of negligence : if my correspondence has 
not always that regularity which I would fain give it, attribute 
the fault solely to the whirlwind in which I live, and which 
carries me hither and thither at its will. 

" However, you are not the only person with whom I am 
behindhand : I assure you, on the contrary, that you are one of 
a very numerous and fashionable company, to whom, towards 
the discharge of my debts, I propose to consecrate four hours 
to-day. I give you the preference to all the world, even to 
the lovely Duchess of San Severino, a delicious Italian, whom 
for my special happiness, I met last summer at the Waters of 
Aix. I have also a most important negotiation to conclude 
with one of our Princes of Finance : but ?i'importe, I commence 
with thee : friendship before love or money — friendship before 
everything. My despatches concluded, I am engaged to ride 
with the Marquis de Grigneure, the Comte de Castijars, and 
Lord Cobham, in order that we may recover, for a breakfast at 
the Rocher de Cancale that Grigneure has lost, the appetite 
which we all of us so cruelly abused last night at the Ambas- 
sador's. On my honor, my dear fellow, everybody was of a 
caprice prestigieux and a co?nfortable mirobolant. Fancy, for a 
banquet-hall, a royal orangery hung with white damask ; the 
boxes of the shrubs transformed into so many sideboards; 
lights gleaming through the foliage ; and, for guests, the love- 
liest women and most brilliant cavaliers of Paris. Orleans 
and Nemours were there, dancing and eating like simple 
mortals. In a word, Albion did the thing very handsomely, 
and I accord it my esteem. 

" Here I pause, to call for my valet-de-chambre, and call 
for tea ; for my head is heavy, and I've no time for a headache. 
In serving me, this rascal of a Frederic has broken a cup, true 
Japan, upon my honor — the rogue does nothing else. Yester- 
day, for instance, did he not thump me prodigiously, by letting 
fall a goblet, after Cellini, of which the carving alone cost me 
three hundred francs ? I must positively put the wretch out of 
doors, to ensure the safety of my furniture ; and in consequence 
of this, Eneas, an audacious young negro, in whom wisdom 
hath not waited for years — Eneas, my groom, I say, will probably 
be elevated to the post of valet-de-chambre. But where was I ? 
I think I was speaking to you of an oyster breakfast, to which, 



ON SOME FRENCH FASHIONABLE NO VELS, 87 

on our return from the Park (du Bois), a company of pleasant 
rakes are invited. After quitting Borel's, we propose to ad- 
journ to the Barriere du Combat, where Lord Cobham proposes 
to try some bull-dogs, which he has brought over from England 
— one of these, O'Connell, (Lord Cobham is a Tory,) has a 
face in which I place much confidence : I have a bet of ten 
louis with Castijars on the strength of it. After the fight, we 
shall make our accustomed appearance at the ' Cafe de Paris,' 
(the only place, by the way, where a man who respects himself 
may be seen,) — and then away with frocks and spurs, and on 
with our dress-coats for the rest of the evening. In the first 
place, I shall go doze for a couple of hours at the Opera, where 
my presence is indispensable ; for Coralie, a charming creature, 
passes this evening from the rank of the rats to that of the tigers^ 
in 2i pas-de-trois, and our box patronizes her. After the opera, 
I must show my face at two or three salons in the Faubourg St. 
Honore, and having thus performed my duties to the world of 
fashion, I return to the exercise of my rights as a member of the 
Carnival. At two o'clock all the world meets at the Theatre 
Ventadour : lions and tigers — the whole of our menagerie, will 
be present. Evoe ! off we ^go ! roaring and bounding Bac- 
chanal and Saturnal ; 'tis agreed that we shall be everything 
that is low. To conclude, we sup with Castijars, the most 
'furiously dishevelled ' orgy that ever was known." 

The rest of the letter is on matters of finance, equally 
curious and instructive. But pause we for the present, to con- 
sider the fashionable part : and caricature as it is, we have an 
accurate picture of the actual French dandy. Bets, breakfasts, 
riding, dinners at the " Cafe de Paris," and delirious Carnival 
balls : the animal goes through all such frantic pleasures at 
the season that precedes Lent. He has a wondrous respect 
for " Englishmen-sportsmen ; " he imitates their clubs — their 
love of horse-flesh : he calls his palefrenier a groom, wears 
blue bird's-eye neck-cloths, sports his pink out hunting, rides 
steeple-chases, and has his Jockey Club. The " tigers and 
lions " alluded to in the report have been borrowed from our 
own country, and a great compliment is it to Monsieur de Ber- 
nard, the writer of the above amusing sketch, that he has such a 
knowledge of English names and things, as to give a Tory lord 
the decent title of Lord Cobham, and to call his dog O'Connell. 
Paul de Kock calls an English nobleman, in one of his last 
novels, Lord Boulingrog^ and appears vastly delighted at the 
"/erisimilitude of the title. 



88 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK, 

For the ^^ rugissements et bondissemetits^ bacchanak et saiur- 
nale, galop infernal, ronde du sabbat tout le tre?nblement,^^ these 
words give a most clear, untranslatable idea of the Carnival 
ball. A sight more hideous can hardly strike a man's eye. I 
was present at one where the four thousand guests whirled 
screaming, reeling, roaring, out of the ballroom in the Rue St. 
Honore, and tore down to the column in the Place Vendome, 
round which they went shrieking their own music, twenty miles 
an hour, and so tore madly back again. Let a man go alone 
to such a place of amusement, and the sight for him is perfectly 
terrible ; the horrid frantic gayety of the place puts him in mind 
mord of the merriment of demons than of men : bang, bang, 
drums, trumpets, chairs, pistol-shots, pour out of the orchestra, 
which seems as mad as the dancers ; whiz, a whirlwind of paint 
and patches, all the costumes under the sun, all the ranks in 
the empire, all the he and she scoundrels of the capital, 
writhed and twisted together, rush by you ; if a man falls, woe 
be to him : two thousand screaming menads go trampling over 
his carcass : they have neither power nor will to stop. 

A set of Malays drunk with bhang and running amuck, a 
company of howling dervishes, may possibly, in our own day, 
go through similar frantic vagaries ; but I doubt if any civilized 
European people but the French would permit and enjoy such 
scenes. Yet our neighbors see little shame in them ; and it is 
very true that men of all classes, high and low, here congregate 
and give themselves up to the disgusting worship of the genius 
of the place. — From the dandy of the Boulevard and the " Cafe 
Anglais," let us turn to the dandy of " Flicoteau's " and the 
Pays Latin — the Paris student, whose exploits among the 
grisettes are so celebrated, and whose fierce republicanism 
keeps gendarmes forever on the alert. The following is M. 
de Bernard's description of him : — 

*' I became acquainted with Dambergeac when we were 
students at the Ecole da Droit ; we lived in the same hotel on 
the Place du Pantheon. No doubt, madam, you have occasionally 
met little children dedicated to the Virgin, and, to this end, 
clothed in white raiment from head to foot : my friend, Dain- 
bergeac, had received a different consecration. His father, a 
great patriot of the Revolution, had determined that his son 
should bear into the world a sign of indelible republicanism ; 
so, to the great displeasure of his godmother and the parish 
curate, Dambergeac was christened by the pagan name of 
Harmodius. It was a kind of moral tricolor-cockade, which the 



ON SOME FRENCH FASHIONABLE NO VELS. 89 

child was to bear through the vicissitudes of all the revolutions 
to come. Under such influences, my friend's character began 
to develop itself, and, fired by the example of his father, and by 
the warm atmosphere of his native place, Marseilles, he grew 
up to have an independent spirit, and a grand liberality of 
politics, which were at their height when first I made his ac- 
quaintance. 

"He was then a young man of eighteen, with a tall, slim 
figure, a broad chest, and a flaming black eye, out of all which 
personal charms he knew how to draw the most advantage ; 
and though his costume was such as Staub might probably 
have Criticised, he had, nevertheless, a style peculiar to him- 
self — to himself and the students, among whom he was the 
leader of the fashion. A tight black coat, buttoned up to the 
chin, across the chest, set off that part of his person; a low- 
crowned hat, with a voluminous rim, cast solemn shadows over 
a countenance bronzed by a southern sun : he wore, at one 
time, enormous flowing black locks, which he sacrificed piti- 
lessly, however, and adopted a Brutus, as being more revolu- 
tionary : finally, he carried an enormous club, that was his code 
and digest : in like manner, De Retz used to carry a stiletto in 
his pocket, by way of a breviary. 

" Although of different ways of thinking in politics, certain 
sympathies of character and conduct united Dambergeac and 
myself, and we speedily became close friends. I don't think, 
in the whole course of his three years' residence, Dambergeac 
ever went through a single course of lectures. For the ex- 
aminations, he trusted to luck, and to his own facility, which 
was prodigious : as for honors, he never aimed at them, but 
was content to do exactly as little as was necessary for him to 
gain his degree. In like manner he sedulously avoided those 
horrible circulating libraries, where daily are seen to con- 
gregate the ' reading men ' of our schools. But, in revenge, 
there was not a milliner's shop or a Ungere's, in all our quartier 
Latin, which he did not industriously frequent, and of which 
he was not the oracle. Nay, it was said that his victories were 
not confined to the left bank of the Seine ; reports did occa- 
sionally come to us of fabulous adventures by him accomplish- 
ed in the far regions of the Rue de la Paix and the Boulevard 
Poissoniere. Such recitals were, for us less favored mortals, 
like tales of Bacchus conquering in the East ; they excited our 
ambition, but not our jealousy ; for the superiority of Har- 
modious was acknowledged by us all, and we never thought of 
rivalry with him, No man ever cantered a hack through the 



90 



THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 



Champs Elyse'es with such elegant assurance ; no man ever 
made such a massacre of dolls at the shooting-gallery ; or won 
you a rubber at billiards with more easy grace ; or thundered 
out a couplet out of Be'ranger with such a roaring melodious 
bass. He was the monarch of the Prado in winter ; in summer 
of the Chaumiere and Mount Parnasse. Not a frequenter of 
those fashionable places of entertainment showed a more ami 
able laisser-alle?' in the dance — that peculiar dance at which 
gendarmes think proper to blush, and which squeamish society 
has banished from her salons. In a word, Harmodious was the 
prince of maiivais sujds, a youth with all the accomplishments 
of Gottingen and Jena, and all the eminent graces of his own 
country. 

" Besides dissipation and gallantry, our friend had one 
other vast and absorbing occupation — politics, namely ; in 
which he was as turbulent and enthusiastic as in pleasure. 
La Fatrie was his idol, his heaven," his nightmare ; by day he 
spouted, by night he dreamed, of his country. I have spoken 
to you of his coiffure a la Sylla ; need I mention his pipe, his 
meerschaum pipe, of which General Foy's head was the bowl ; 
his handkerchief with the Charte printed thereon ; and his cele- 
brated tricolor braces, which kept the rallying sign of his 
country ever close to his heart ? Besides these outward and 
visible signs of sedition, he had inward and secret plans of 
revolution : he belonged to clubs, frequented associations, read 
the Coftstitutionnel (lAhQr^Xs, in those days, swore by the Consti- 
tutionfiel)^ harangued peers and deputies who had deserved 
well of their country ; and if death happened to fall on such, 
and the Cotistitutionnel declared their merit, Harmodious was 
the very first to attend their obsequies, or to set his shoulder 
to their coffins. 

" Such were his tastes and passions : his antipathies were 
not less lively. He detested three things : a Jesuit, a gen- 
darme, and a claqueur at a theatre. At this period, missionaries 
were rife about Paris, and endeavored to re-illume the zeal of 
the faithful by public preaching in the churches. ^ Infatnes 
Jesiiites /' would Harmodious exclaim, who, in the excess of his 
toleration, tolerated nothing; and, at the head of a band of 
philosophers like himself, would attend with scrupulous exacti- 
tude the meetings of the reverend gentlemen. But, instead of 
a contrite heart, Harmodious only brought the abomination of 
desolation into their sanctuary. A perpetual fire of fulminat- 
ing balls would bang from under the feet of the faithful ; odors 
of impure assafoetida would mingle with the fumes of the in- 



ON SOME FRENCH FASHIONABLE NO VELS. 9 1 

cense ; and wicked drinking choruses would rise up along with 
the holy canticles, in hideous dissonance, reminding one of the 
old orgies under the reign of the Abbot of Unreason. 

" His hatred of the gendarmes was equally ferocious : and 
as for the claqueurs, woe be to them when Harmodious was in 
the pit ! They knew him, and trembled before him, like the 
earth before Alexander ; and his famous war-cry, ''La Carte an 
chapeaii /' was so much dreaded, that the ' entrepreneurs de siicch 
dramatiqiies ' demanded twice as much to do the Odeon Theatre 
(which we students and Harmodious frequented), as to applaud 
at any other place of amusement : and, indeed, their double 
pay was hardly gained ; Harmodious taking care that they 
should earn the most of it under the benches." 

This passage, with which we have taken some liberties, will 
give the reader a more lively idea of the reckless, jovial, tur- 
bulent Paris student, than any with which a foreigner could 
furnish him : the grisette is his heroine ; and dear old Be- 
ranger, the cynic-epicurean, has celebrated him and her in the 
most delightful verses in the world. Of these we may have 
occasion to say a word or two anon. Meanwhile let us follow 
Monsieur de Bernard in his amusing descriptions of his coun- 
trymen somewhat farther ; and, having seen how Dambergeac 
was a ferocious republican, being a bachelor, let us see how 
age, sense, and a little government pay — the great agent of 
conversions in France — nay, in England — has reduced him to 
be a pompous, quiet, loyal supporter of the juste milieu ; his 
former portrait was that of the student, the present will stand 
for an admirable lively likeness of 

THE SOUS-PREFET. 

" Saying that I would wait for Dambergeac in his own 
study, I was introduced into that apartment, and saw around 
me the usual furniture of a man in his station. There was, in 
the m.iddle of the room, a large bureau, surrounded by ortho- 
dox arm chairs ; and there were many shelves with boxes duly 
ticketed ; there were a number of maps, and among them a 
great one of the department over which Dambergeac ruled , 
and facing the windows, on a wooden pedestal, stood a plaster- 
cast of the ' Roides Fran^ais.' Recollecting my friend's former 
republicanism, I smiled at this piece of furniture ; but before I 
had time to carry my observations any farther, a heavy rolling 
sound of carriage-wheels, that caused the windows to rattle 



92 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

and seemed to shake the whole edifice of the sub-prefecture, 
called my attention to the court without. Its iron gates were 
flung open, and in rolled, with a great deal of din, a chariot 
escorted by a brace of gendarmes, sword in hand. A tall gen- 
tleman, with a cocked-hat and feathers, wearing a blue and 
silver uniform coat, descended from the vehicle ; and having, 
with much grave condescension, saluted his escort, mounted 
the stair. A moment afterwards the door of the study was 
opened, and I embraced my friend. 

" After the first warmth and salutations, we began to exam, 
ine each other with an equal curiosity, for eight years had 
elapsed since we had last met. 

" * You are grown very thin and pale,' said Harmodius, aftei 
a moment. 

" ' In revenge I find you fat and rosy : if I am a walking 
satire on celibacy, — you, at least, are a living panegyric on 
marriage.' 

" In fact a great change, and such an one as many people 
would call a change for the better, had taken place in my 
friend • he had grown fat, and announced a decided disposition 
to become what French people call a bel homme : that is, a very 
fat one. His complexion, bronzed before, was now clear white 
and red : there were no more political allusions in his hair, 
which was, on the contrary, neatly frizzed, and brushed over 
the forehead, shell-shape. This head-dress, joined to a thin 
pair of whiskers, cut crescent-wise from the ear to the nose, 
gave my friend a regular bourgeois physiognomy, wax-doll-like : 
he looked a great deal too well ; and, added to this, the 
solemnity of his prefectural costume, gave his whole appear- 
ance a pompous well-fed look that by no means pleased. 

" ' I surprise you,' said I, ' in the midst of your splendor : 
do you know that this costume and yonder attendants have 
a look excessively awful and splendid .? You entered your 
palace just now with the air of a pasha.' 

" ' You see me in uniform in honor of Monseigneur the 
Bishop, who has just made his diocesan visit, and whom I have 
just conducted to the limit of the arrondissemeiit: 

" * What ! ' said I, ' you have gendarmes for guards,, and 
dance attendance on bishops ? There are no more janissaries 
and Jesuits, I suppose 1 ' The sub-prefect smiled. 

" * I assure you that my gendarmes are very worthy fellows ; 
and that among the gentlemen who compose our cler2:y there 
are some of the very best rank and talent : besides, my wife is 
niece to one of the vicars-general.' 



ON SOME FRENCH FASHIONABLE NO VELS. 93 

" ' What have you done with that great Tasso beard that 
poor Armandine used to love so ? ' 

" ' My wife does not Uke a beard ; and you know that what 
is permitted to a student is not very becoming to a magistrate.' 

" I began to laugh. ' Harmodius and a magistrate ! — how 
shall I ever couple the two words together ? But tell me, in 
your correspondences, your audiences, your sittings with village 
mayors and petty councils, how do you manage to remain 
awake ? ' 

" ' In the commencement,' said Harmodius, gravely, ' it was 
very difficult ; and, in order to keep my eyes open, I used to 
stick pins into my legs : now, however, I am used to it ; and 
I'm sure I don't take more than fifty pinches of snufi at a 
sitting.' 

" ' Ah ! a propos of snuff : you are near Spain here, and 
were always a famous smoker. Give me a cigar, — it will take 
away the musty odor of these piles of papers.' 

" ' Impossible, my dear ; I don't smoke ; my wife cannot 
bear a cigar.' 

" His wife ! thought I : always his wife ; and I remember 
Juliette, who really grew sick at the smell of a pipe, and Har- 
modius would smoke, until, at* last, the poor thing grew to 
smoke herself, like a trooper. To compensate, however, as 
much as possible for the loss of my cigar, Dambergeac drew 
from his pocket an enormous gold snuff-box, on which figured 
the selfsame head that I had before remarked in plaster, but 
this time surrounded with a ring of pretty princes and prin- 
cesses, all nicely painted in miniature. As for the statue of 
Louis Philippe, that, in the cabinet of an official, is a thing of 
course ; but the snuff-box seemed to indicate a degree of senti- 
mental and personal devotion, such as the old Royalists were 
only supposed to be guilty of. 

" ' What ! you are turned decided juste milieu t " said I. 

" ' I am a sous-prefet,' answered Harmodious. 

" I had nothing to say, but held my tongue, wondering, not 
at the change which had taken place in the habits, manners, 
and opinions of my friend, but at my own folly, which led me 
to fancy that I should find the student of '26 in the functionary 
of '34. At this moment a domestic appeared. 

" ' Madame is waiting for Monsieur,' said he : ' the last bell 
has gone, and mass beginning.' 

" ' Mass ! ' said I, bounding up from my chair. * Vou at 
mass, like a decent serious Christian, without crackers in your 
pocket, and bored keys to whistle through ? ' — The sous-prefet 



94 ^'-^-^ PARIS SKETCH BOOIC. 

rose, his countenance was calm, and an indulgent smile played 
upon his lips, as he said, ' My arrondissement is very devout ; 
and not to interfere with the belief of the population is the 
maxim of every wise politician : I have precise orders from 
Government on the point, too, and go to eleven o'clock mass 
every Sunday." 

There is a great deal of curious matter for speculation in 
the accounts here so wittily given by M. de Bernard : but, per- 
haps, it is still more curious to think of what he has not written, 
and to judge of his characters, not so much by the words in 
which he describes them, as by the unconscious testimony that 
the words altogether convey. In the first place, our author 
describes a swindler imitating the manners of a dandy ; and 
many swindlers and dandies be there, doubtless, in London as 
well as in Paris. But there is about the -present swindler, 
and about Monsieur Dambergeac, the student, and Mon- 
sieur Dambergeac the sous-prefet, and his friend, a rich 
store of calm internal debauch^ which does not, let us 
hope and pray, exist in England. Hearken to M. de Gus- 
tan, and his smirking whispers about the Duchess of San 
Severino, who pour son bonheur particular, &c., &c. Listen to 
Monsieur Dambergeac's friend's remonstrances concerning 
pauvrd yuliette, who grew sick at the smell of a pipe ; to his 
naive admiration of the fact that the sous-prefet goes to church : 
and we may set down, as axioms, that religion is so uncommon 
among the Parisians, as to awaken the surprise of all candid 
observers ; that gallantry is so common as to create no remark, 
and to be considered as a matter of course. With us, at least, 
the converse of the proposition prevails : it is the man pro- 
fessing /rreligion who would be remarked and reprehended in 
England ; and, if the second-named vice exists, at any rate, it 
adopts the decency of secrecy, and is not made patent and 
notorious to all the world. A French gentleman thinks no 
more of proclaiming that he has a mistress than that he has a 
tailor ; and one lives the time of Boccaccio over again, in the 
thousand and one French novels which depict society in that 
country. 

For instance, here are before us a few specimens (do not, 
madam, be alarmed, you can skip the sentence if you like,) to 
be found in as many admirable witty tales, by the before- 
lauded Monsieur de Bernard. He is more remarkable than 
any other French author, to our notion, for writing like a gentle- 
man ; there is ease, grace and toji, in his style, which, if we 



ON SOME FRENCH- FASHTONABLIL NOVELS. 95 

judge aright, cannot be discovered in Balzac, or Soulie, or 
Dumas. We have then — " Gerfaut," a novel : a lovely creature 
is married to a brave, haughty, Alsacian nobleman, who allows 
her to spend her winters at Paris, he remaining on his terres, 
cultivating, carousing, and hunting the boar. The lovely crea- 
ture meets the fascinating Gerfaut at Paris; instantly the latter 
makes love to her ; a duel takes place : baron killed ; wife 
throws herself out of window ; Gerfaut plunges into dissipa- 
tion ; and so the tale ends. 

Next : " La Femme de Quarante Ans," a capital tale, full 
of exquisite fun and sparkling satire : La femme de quarante 
ans has a husband and tlwee lovers ; all of whom find out their 
mutual connexion one starry night ; for the lady of forty is of 
a romantic poetical turn, and has given her three admirers a 
star apiece ; saying to one and the other, " Alphonse, when yon 
pale orb rises in heaven, think of me ; " " Isidore, when that 
bright planet sparkles in the sky, remember your Caroline," &c. 

" Un Acte de Vertu," from which we have taken Damber- 
geac's history, contains him, the husband — a wife — and a 
brace of lovers ; and a great deal of fun takes place in the 
manner in which one lover supplants the other. — Pretty morals 
truly ! 

If we examine an author who rejoices in the aristocratic 
name of le Comte Horace de Viel-Castel, we find, though with 
infinitely less wit, exactly the same intrigues going on. A noble 
Count lives in the Faubourg St. Honore, and has a noble 
Duchess for a mistress : he introduces her Grace to the Countess 
his wife. The Countess his wife, in order to rame?ier her lord 
to his conjugal duties, is counselled, by a friend, to pretend to 
take a, lover : one is found, who, poor fellow! takes the affair 
in earnest : climax — duel, despair, and what not ? In the 
" Faubourg St. Germain," another novel by the same writer, 
which professes to describe the very pink of that society which 
Napoleon dreaded more than Russia, Prussia, and Austria, 
there is an old husband, of course ; a sentimental young German 
nobleman, who falls in love with his wife ; and the moral of 
the piece lies in the showing up of the conduct of the lady, 
who is reprehended — not for deceiving her husband (poor 
devil !) — but for being a flirt, a7id taking a second lover, to the 
utter despair, confusion, and annihilation of the first. 

Why, ye gods, do Frenchmen marry at all ? Had Pere 
Enfantin (who, it is said, has shaved his ambrosial beard, and is 
now a clerk in a banking-house) been allowed to carry out his 
chaste, just, dignified social scheme, what a deal of marital 



g6 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK, 

discomfort might have been avoided : — would it not be 
advisable that a great reformer and lawgiver of our own, 
Mr. Robert Owen, should be presented at the Tuileries, and 
there jDropound his scheme for the regeneration of France ? 

He might, perhaps, be spared, for our country is not yet 
sufficiently advanced to give such a philosopher fair play. In 
London, as yet, there are no blessed Bureaux de Mariage, 
where an old bachelor may have a charming young maiden — 
for his money ; or a widow of seventy may buy a gay young 
fellow of twenty, for a certain number of bank-billets. If 
mariages de convetiance take place here (as they will wherever 
avarice, and poverty, and desire, and yearning after riches are 
to be found), at least, thank God, such unions are not arranged 
upon a regular organized system ; there is a fiction of attachment 
with us, and there is a consolation in the deceit (" the homage," 
according to the old mot of Rochefoucauld,. " which vice pays 
to virtue ") ; for the very falsehood shows that the virtue exists 
somewhere. We once heard a furious old French colonel in- 
veighing against the chastity of English demoiselles : " Figurez- 
vous, sir," said he (he had been a prisoner in England), that 
these women come down to dinner in low dresses, and walk 
out alone with the men ! " — and, pray heaven, so may they 
walk, fancy-free in all sorts of maiden meditations, and suffer 
no more molestation than that young lady of whom Moore 
sings, and who (there must have been a famous lord-lieutenant 
in those days) walked through all Ireland, with rich and rare 
gems, beauty, and a gold ring on her stick, without meeting or 
thinking of harm. 

Now, whether Monsieur de Viel-Castel has given a true 
picture of the Faubourg St. Germain, it is impossible for most 
foreigners to say ; but some of his descriptions will not fail to 
astonish the English reader ; and all are filled with that remark- 
able //^/{Z" contempt of the institution called marriage, which we 
have seen in M. de Bernard. The romantic young nobleman 
of Westphalia arrives at Paris, and is admitted into what a 
celebrated female author calls la C7'eme de la creme de la haute 
volee of Parisian society. He is a youth of about twenty years 
of age. " No passion had as yet come to move his heart, and 
give life to his faculties ; he was awaiting and fearing the 
moment of love ; calling for it, and yet trembling at its approach ; 
feeling, in the depths of his soul, that that moment would create 
a mighty change in his being, and decide, perhaps, by its in- 
fluence, the whole of his future life." 

Is it not remarliabl^, that a young nobleman^ with these 



ON SOME FRENCH FASHIONABLE NOVELS. 97 

ideas, should not pitch upon a demoiselle^ or a widow, at least ? 
but no, the rogue must have a married woman, bad luck to 
him ; and what his fate is to be, is thus recounted by our author, 
in the shape of 

A FRENCH FASHIONABLE CONVERSATION. 

" A lady, with a great deal of esprit, to whom forty years* 
experience of the great world had given a prodigious per- 
spicacity of judgment, the Duchess of Chalux, arbitress of the 
opinion to be held on all new comers to the Faubourg Saint 
Germain, and of their destiny and reception in it; — one of 
those women, in a word, who make or ruin a man, — said, in 
speaking of Gerard de Stolberg, whom she received at her own 
house, and met everywhere, ' This young German will never 
gain for himself the title of an exquisite, or a man of bonnes 
fortunes, among us. In spite of his calm and politeness, I 
think I can see in his character some rude and insurmountable 
difficulties, which time will only increase, and which will pre- 
vent him forever from bending to the exigencies of either pro- 
fession ; but, unless I very much deceive myself, he will, one 
day, be the hero of a veritable romance.' 

" ' He, madame ? ' answered a young man, of fair complex- 
ion and fair hair, one of the most devoted slaves of the fashion : 
— ' He, Madame la Duchesse ? why the man is, at best, but an 
original, fished out of the Rhine j a dull, heavy creature, as 
much capable of understanding a woman's heart as I am of 
speaking bas-Breton.' 

" ' Well, Monsieur de Belport, you will speak bas-Breton. 
Monsieur de Stolberg has not your admirable ease of manner, 
nor your facility of telling nothings, nor your — in a word, that 
particular something which makes you the most recherche man 
of the Faubourg Saint Germain ; and even I avow to you that, 
were I still young and a coquette, and that I took it into my head 
to have a lover, I would prefer you.' 

" All this was said by the Duchess, with a certain air of 
raillery and such a mixture of earnest and malice, that Mon- 
sieur de Belport, piqued not a little, could not help saying, as 
he bowed profoundly before the Duchess's chair, ' And might 
I, madam, be permitted to ask the reason of this preference ? ' 

" ' O mon Dieu, oui,' said the Duchess, always in the same 
tone ; * because a lover like you would never think of carrjdng 
his attachment to the height of passion ; and these passions, do 
you know, have frightened me all my life, One cannot retreat 

7 



98 



THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 



at will from the grasp of a passionate lover ; one leaves behind 
one some fragment of one's moral self^ or the best part of one's 
physical life. A passion, if it does not kill you, adds cruelly to 
your years ; in a word, it is the very lowest possible taste. 
And now you understand why I should prefer you, M. de Bel- 
port — you who are reputed to the leader of the fashion.' 

" * Perfectly,' murmured the gentleman, piqued more and 
more. 

"'Gerard de Stolberg w/// be passionate. I don't know 
what woman will please him, or will be pleased by him ' (here 
the Duchess of Chalux spoke more gravely) ; ' but his love 
will be no play, I repeat it to you once more. All this 
astonishes you, because you, great leaders of the ton that you 
are, never can fancy that a hero of romance should be found 
among your number. Gerard de Stolberg — but look, here he 
comes ! ' 

" M. de Belport rose, and quitted the Duchess, without 
believing in her prophecy ; but he could not avoid smiling as 
he passed near the he?'o of romance. 

" It was because M. de Stolberg had never, in all his life, 
been a hero of romance, or even an apprentice-hero of ro- 
mance. 

•vf •?? -3r ^ TT 

" Gerard de Stolberg was not, as yet, initiated into the thou- 
sand secrets in the chronicle of the great world : he knew but 
superficially the society in which he lived ; and, therefore, 
he devoted his evening to the gathering of all the infor- 
mation which he could acquire from the indiscreet conver- 
sations of the people about him. His whole man became 
ear and memory ; so much was Stolberg convinced of the 
necessity of becoming a diligent student in this new school, 
where was taught the art of knowing and advancing in the 
great world. In the recess of a window he learned more on 
this one night than months of investigation would have taught 
him. The talk of a ball is more indiscreet than the confiden- 
tial chatter of a company of idle women. No man present at 
a ball, whether listener or speaker, thinks he has a right to af- 
fect any indulgence for his companions, and the most' learned 
in malice will always pass for the most witty„ 

" ' How ! ' said the Viscount de Mondrage : ' the Duchess 
of Rivesalte arrives alone to-night, without her inevitable Dor- 
milly I ' — 'And the Viscount, as he spoke, pointed towards a tall 
and slender young woman, who, gliding rather than walking, 
met the ladies by whom she passed, with a graceful and modest 



ON SOME FRENCH FASHIONABLE NOVELS. 99 

salute, and replied to the looks of the men by brilUajit veiled 
glances full of coquetry and attack. 

" ' Parbleu ! ' said an elegant personage standing near the 
Viscount de Mondrage, ' don't you see Dormilly ranged behind 
the Duchess, in quality of train-bearer, and hiding, under his 
long locks and his great screen of mustaches, the blushing 
consciousness of his good luck ? They call him the fourth chap- 
ter oiihe. Duchess's memoirs. The little Marquise d'Alberas 
is ready to die out of spite ; but the best of the joke is, that 
she has only taken poor de Vendre for a lover in order to vent 
her spleen on him. Look at him against the chimney yonder : 
if the Marchioness do not break at once with him by quitting 
him for somebody else, the poor fellow will turn an idiot.' 

" ' Is he jealous ? ' asked a young man, looking as if he did 
not know what jealousy was and as if he had no time to be 
jealous. 

" Jealous ! — the very incarnation of jealousy ; the second 
edition, revised, corrected, and considerably enlarged ; as jeal- 
ous as poor Gressigny, who is dying of it.' 

" ' What ! Gressigny too ? why, 'tis growing quite into 
fashion : egad ! /must try and be jealous,' said Monsieur de 
Beauval. ' But see ! here conaes the delicious Duchess of 

Bellefiore,' " &c., &c., &c. 

* * # * * 

Enough, enough : this kind of fashionable Parisian conver- 
sation, wdiich is, says our author, " a prodigious labor of im- 
provising," a " chef-d'oeuvre," a " strange and singular thing, 
in which monotony is unknown," seems to be, if correctly 
reported, a " strange and singular thing " indeed ; but some- 
what monotonous at least to an English reader, and " prodi- 
gious " only, if we may take leave to say so, for the wonderful 
rascality which all the conversationists betray. Miss Never- 
cut and the Colonel, in Swift's famous dialogue, are a thou- 
sand times more entertaining and moral ; and, besides, we can 
laugh at those worthies as well as with them ; whereas the 
" prodigious " French wits are to us quite incomprehensible. 

Fancy a duchess as old as Lady herself, and who should 

begin to tell us " of what she would do if ever she had a mind 
to take a lover ; " and another duchess, with a fourth lover, 
tripping modestly among the ladies, and returning the gaze of 
the men by veiled glances, full of coquetry and attack ! — Par- 
bleu, if Monsieur de Viel-Castel should find himself among a 
society of French duchesses, and they should tear his eyes^out, 
and send the fashionable Orpheus floating by the Seine, his 
slaughter might almost be considered as justifiable Counticide. 



loo THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 



A GAMBLER'S DEATH. 

Anybody who was at C school some twelve years 

since, must recollect Jack Attwood : he was the most dashing 
lad in the place, with more money in his pocket than belonged 
to the whole fifth form in which we were companions. 

When he was about fifteen. Jack suddenly retreated from 

C , and presently we heard that he had a commission in a 

cavalry regiment, and was to have a great fortune from his 
father^ when that old gentleman should die. Jack himself 
came to confirm these stories a few months after, and paid a 
visit to his old school chums. He had laid aside his little 
school-jacket and inky corduroys, and now appeared in such a 
splendid military suit as won the respect of all of us. His hair 
was dripping with oil, his hands were covered with rings, he 
had a dusky down over his upper lip which looked not unlike 
a moustache, and a multiplicity of frogs and braiding on his 
surtout which would have sufficed to lace a field-marshal. 
When old Swishtail, the usher, passed in his seedy black coat 
and gaiters. Jack gave him such a look of contempt as set us 
all a-laughing : in fact it was his turn to laugh now ; for he 
used to roar very stoutly some months before, when Swishtail 
was in the custom of belaboring him with his great cane. 

Jack's talk was all about the regiment and the fine fellows 
in it : how he had ridden a steeple-chase with Captain Boldero, 
and licked him at the last hedge ; and how he had very nearly 
fought a duel with Sir George Grig, about dancing with Lady 
Mary Slamken at a ball. '' I soon made the baronet know 
what it was to deal with a man of the n — th," said Jack. 
" Dammee, sir, when I lugged out my barkers, and talked of 
fighting across the mess-room table, Grig turned as pale as a 
sheet, or as " 

" Or as you used to do, Attwood, when Swishtail hauled 
you up," piped out little Hicks, the foundation-boy. 

It was beneath Jack's dignity to thrash anybody, now, but 
a grown-up baronet ; so he let off little Hicks, and passed over 
the general titter which was raised at his expense. However, 
he entertained us with his histories about lords and ladies, and 
so-and-so " of ours," until we thought him one of the greatest 
men*in his Majesty's service, and until the school-bell rung; 
when, with a heavy heart, we got our books together, and 



A GAMBLER'S DEATH. lOi 

marched in to be whacked by old Swishtail. I promise you he 
revenged himself on us for Jack's contempt of him. I got that 
day at least twenty cuts to my share, which ought to have 
belonged to Cornet Attwood, of the n — th dragoons. 

When we came to think more coolly over our quondam 
school-fellow's swaggering talk and manner, we were not quite 
so impressed by his merits as at his first appearance among us. 
We recollected how he used, in former times, to tell us great 
stories, which were so monstrously improbable that the smallest 
boy in the school would scout them ; how often we caught him 
tripping in facts, and how unblushingly he admitted his little 
errors in the score of veracity. He and I, though never great 
friends, had been close companions r I was Jack's form-fellow 
(we fought with amazing emulation for the last place in the 
class) ; but still I was rather hurt at the coolness of my old 
comrade, who had forgotten all our former intimacy, in his 
steeple-chases with Captain Boldero and his duel with Sir 
George Grig. 

Nothing more was heard of Attwood for some years ; a tailor 

one day came down to C , who had made clothes for Jack 

in his school-days, and furnished him with regimentals : he 
produced a long bill for one hundred and twenty pounds and 
upwards, and asked where news might be had of his customer. 
Jack was in India, with his regiment, shooting tigers and jackals, 
no doubt. Occasionally, from that distant country, some mag- 
nificent rumor would reach us of his proceedings. Once I 
heard that he had been called to a court-martial for unbecom- 
ing conduct ; another time, that he kept twenty horses, and won 
the gold plate at the Calcutta races. Presently, however, as 
the recollections of the fifth form wore away. Jack's image dis- 
appeared likewise, and I ceased to ask or think about my 
college chum. 

A year since, as I was smoking my cigar in the " Estaminet 
du Grand Balcon," an excellent smoking-shop, where the tobac- 
co is unexceptionable, and the Hollands of singular merit, a 
dark-looking, thick-set man, in a greasy well-cut coat, with a 
shabby hat, cocked on one side of his dirty face, took the place 
opposite me at the little marble table, and called for brandy. 
I did not much admire the impudence or the appearance of my 
friend, nor the fixed stare with which he chose to examine me. 
At last, he thrust a great greasy hand across the table, and said, 
"Titmarsh, do you forget your old friend Attwood ? " 

I confess my recognition of him was not so joyful as on the 
day ten years earlier, when he had come, bedizened with lace 



I02 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

and gold rings to see us at C school : a man in the tenth 

part of a century learns a deal of worldly wisdom, and his hand, 
which goes naturally forward to seize the gloved finger of a 
millionaire, or a milor, draws instinctively back from a dirty fist, 
encompassed by a ragged wristband and a tattered cuff. But 
Attwood was in nowise so backward ; and the iron squeeze with 
which he shook my passive paw, proved that he was either very 
affectionate or very poor. You, my dear sir, who are reading 
this history, know very well the great art of shaking hands : 
recollect how you shook Lord Dash's hand the other day, and 
how you shook ojf poor Blank, when he came to borrow five 
pounds of you. 

However, the genial influence of the Hollands speedily dis- 
sipated anything like coolness between us ; and, in the course 
of an hour's conversation, we became almost as intimate as 
when we were suffering together under the ferule of old Swish- 
tail. Jack told me that he had quitted the army in disgust ; 
and that his father, who was to leave him a fortune, had died 
ten thousand pounds in debt : he did not touch upon his own 
circumstances ; but I could read them in his elbows, which 
were peeping through his old frock. He talked a great deal, 
however, of runs of luck, good and bad ; and related to me an 
infallible plan for breaking all the play-banks in Europe — a 
great number of old tricks ; — and a vast quantity of gin-punch 
was consumed on the occasion ; so long, in fact, did our con- 
versation continue, that, I confess it with shame, the sentiment, 
or something stronger, quite got the better of me, and I have, 
to this day, no sort of notion how our palaver concluded. — 
Only, on the next morning, I did not possess a certain five- 
pound note, which on the previous evening was in my sketch- 
book (by far the prettiest drawing by the way in the collection); 
but there, instead, was a strip of paper, thus inscribed : — 

lOU 
Five Pounds. John Attwood, 

Late of the N — th Dragoons. 

I suppose Attwood borrowed the money, from this remjarkable 
and ceremonious acknowledgment on his part : had I been so- 
ber I would just as soon have lent him the nose on my face ; for, 
in my then circumstances, the note was of much more conse- 
quence to me. 

As I lay, cursing my ill fortune, and thinking how on earth 
I should manage to subsist for the next two months, Attwood 



A GAMBLER'S DEA TH. 



103 



burst into my little garret — his face strangely flushed — singing 
and shouting as if it had been the night before. " Titmarsh," 
cried he, " you are my preserver ! — my best friend ! Look 
here, and here, and here ! " And at every word Tvlr. Attwood 
produced a handful of gold, or a glittering heap of five-franc 
pieces, or a bundle of greasy, dusky bank-notes, more beauti- 
ful than either silver or gold : — he had won thirteen thousand 
francs after leaving me at midnight in my garret. He separated 
my poor little all, of six pieces, from this shining and imposing 
collection ; and the passion of envy entered my soul : I felt 
far more anxious now than before, although starvation was then 
staring me in the face ; I hated Attwood for cheating me out 
of all this wealth. Poor fellow ! it had been better for him had 
he never seen a shilling of it. 

However, a grand breakfast at the Cafe Anglais dissipated 
my chagrin ; and I will do my friend the justice to say, that he 
nobly shared some portion of his good fortune with me. As 
far as the creature comforts were concerned I feasted as well 
as he, and never was particular as to settling my share of the 
reckoning. 

Jack now changed his lodgings ; had cards, with Captain 
Attwood engraved on them, and drove about a prancing cab- 
horse, as tall as the giraffe at the Jardin des Plantes ; he had 
as many frogs on his coat as in the old days, and frequented 
all the flash resturateurs' and boarding-houses of the capital. 
Madame de Saint Laurent, and Madame la Baronne de Vau- 
drey, and Madame la Comtesse de Don Jonville, ladies of the 
highest rank, who keep a socieie choisie and condescend to give 
dinners at five-francs a-head, vied with each other in their at- 
tentions to Jack. His was the wing of the fowl, and the largest 
portion of the Charlotte-Russe ; his was the place at the ecarte 
table, where the Countess would ease him nightly of a few 
pieces, declaring that he was the most charming cavalier, la 
fleur d'Albion. Jack's society, it may be seen, was not very 
select ; nor, in truth, were his inclinations : he was a careless, 
dare-devil, Macheath kind of fellow, who might be seen daily 
with a wife on each arm. 

It may be supposed that, with the life he led, his five hun- 
dred pounds of winnings would not last him long ; nor did 
they ; but, for some time, his luck never deserted him ; and 
his cash, instead of growing lower, seemed always to maintain 
a certain level : he played every night. 

Of course, such a humble fellow as I, could not hope for a 
continued acquaintance and intimacy with Attwood. He gre\v 



I04 



THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 



overbearing and cool, I thought ; at any rate I did not admire my 
situation as his follower and dependent, and left his grand din- 
ner for a certain ordinary, where I could partake of five capital 
dishes for ninepence. Occasionally, however, Attwood favored 
me with a visit, or gave me a drive behind his great cab-horse. 
He had formed a whole host of friends besides. There was 
Fips, the barrister; heaven knows what he was doing at Paris ; 
and Gortz, the West Indian, who was there on the same busi- 
ness, and Flapper, a medical student, — all these three I met 
one night at Flapper's rooms, where Jack was invited, and a 
great " spread " was laid in honor of him. 

Jack arrived rather late — he looked pale and agitated ; and, 
though he ate no supper, he drank raw brandy in such a man- 
ner as made Flapper's eyes wink : the poor fellow had but 
three bottles, and Jack bade fair to swallow them all. How- 
ever, the West Indian remedied the evil, and producing a napo- 
leon, we speedily got the change for it in the shape of four 
bottles of champagne. 

Our supper was uproariously harmonious ; Fips sung the 
" Good Old English Gentleman ; " Jack, the " British Grena- 
diers ; " and your humble servant, when called upon, sang that 
beautiful ditty, " When the Bloom is on the Rye," in a man- 
ner that drew tears from every eye, except Flapper's, who 
was asleep, and Jack's, who was singing the " Bay of Biscay 
O," at the same time. Gortz and Fips were all the time lung- 
ing at each other with a pair of single-sticks, the barrister hav- 
ing a very strong notion that he was Richard the Third. At 
last Fips hits the West Indian such a blow across his sconce, 
that the other grew furious ; he seized a champagne-bottle, 
which was, providentially, empty, and hurled it across the room 
at Fips ; had that celebrated barrister not bowed his head at 
the moment, the Queen's Bench would have lost one of its most 
eloquent practitioners. 

Fips stood as straight as he could ; his cheek was pale with 
wrath. " M-m-ister Go-gortz," he said, '' I always heard you 
were a blackguard ; now I can pr-pr-peperove it. Flapper, 
your pistols ! every ge-ge-genlmn knows what I mean." 

Young Mr. Flapper had a small pair of pocket-pistols, which 
the tipsy barrister had suddenly remembered, and with which 
he proposed to sacrifice the West Indian. Gortz was nothing 
loth, but was quite as valorous as the lawyer. 

Attwood, who, in spite of his potations, seemed the soberest 
man of the party, had much enjoyed the scene, until this sud- 
den demand for the weapons. " Pshaw ! " said he, eagerly, 



A GAMBLER'S DEATH. 105 

" don't give these men the means of murdering each other ; sit 
down and let us have another song." But they would not 
be still ; and Flapper forthwith produced his pistol-case, and 
opened it, in order that the duel might take place on the spot. 
There were no pistols there ! " I beg your pardon," said Att- 
wood, looking much confused ; " I took the pistols home with 
me to clean them ! " 

I don't know what there was in his tone, or in his words, 
but we were sobered all of a sudden. Attwood was conscious 
of the singular effect produced by him, for he blushed, and en- 
deavored to speak of other things, bur we could not bring our 
spirits back to the mark again, and soon separated for the 
night. As we issued into the street Jack took me aside, and 
whispered, '' Have you a napoleon, Titmarsh, in your purse ? " 
Alas ! I was not so rich. My reply was, that I was coming to 
Jack, only in the morning, to borrow a similar sum. 

He did not make any reply, but turned away homeward : 

I never heard him speak another word. 

***** 

Two mornings after (for none of our party met on the day 
succeeding the supper), I was awakened by my porter, who 
brought a pressing letter from Mr. Gortz : — 

" Dear T — I wish you would come over here to breakfast. There's a row about Att- 
wood. — Yours truly, " Solomon Gortz." 

I immediately set forward to Gortz's ; he lived in the Rue 
du Helder, a few doors from Attwood's new lodging. If the 
reader is curious to know the house in which the catastrophe 
of this history took place, he has but to march some twenty doors 
down from the Boulevard des Italiens, when he will see a fine 
door, with a naked Cupid shooting at him from the hall, and a 
Venus beckoning him up the stairs. On arriving at the West 
Indian's, at about mid-day (it was a Sunday morning), I found 
that gentleman in his dressing-gown, discussing, in the com- 
pany of Mr. Fips, a large plate of bifteck aux p07n77ies. 

" Here's a pretty row ! " said Gortz, quoting from his letter \ 
— " Attwood's off — have a bit of beefsteak t " 

" What do you mean ? " exclaimed I, adopting the familiar 
phraseology of my acquaintances: — "Attwood off.? — has he 
cut his stick ? " 

" Not bad," said the feeling and elegant Fips — " not such a 
bad guess, my boy ; but he has not exactly cut his sticks 

" What then ? " 

" Why^ his throat^ The man's mouth was full of bleeding 
beef as he uttered this gentlemanly witticism. 



io6 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

I wish I could say that, I was myself in the least affected 
by the news. I did not joke about it like my friend Fips ; this 
was more for propriety's sake than for feeling's : but for my old 
school acquaintance, the friend of my early days, the merry as- 
sociate of the last few months, I own, with shame, that I had 
not a tear or a pang. In some German tale there is an account 
of a creature most beautiful and bewitching, whom all men ad- 
mire and follow : but this charming and fantastic spirit only 
leads them, one by one, into ruin, and then leaves them. The 
novelist wdio describes her beauty, says that his heroine is a 
fairy, and has no heart. I think the intimacy which is begotten 
over the wine-bottle is a spirit of this nature ; I never knew a 
good feeling come from it, or an honest frienship made by it ; 
it only entices men and ruins them ; it is only a phantom of 
friendship and feeling, called up by the delirious blood, and 
the wicked spells of the wine. 

But to drop this strain of moralizing (in which the writer 
is not too anxious to proceed, for he cuts in it a most pitiful 
figure), we passed sundry criticisms upon poor Attwood's 
character, expressed our horror at his death — which sentiment 
was fully proved by Mr. Fips, who declared that the notion of 
it made him feel quite faint, and was obliged to drink a large 
glass of brandy ; and, finally, we agreed that we would go and 
see the poor fellow's corpse, and witness, if necessary, his 
burial. 

Flapper, who had joined us, was the first to propose this 
visit : he said he did not mind the fifteen francs which Jack 
owed him for billiards, but he was anxious to get back his pistol. 
Accordingly, we sallied forth, and speedily arrived at the hotel 
which Attwood inhabited still. He had occupied, for a time, 
very fine apartments in this house : and it was only on arriving 
there that day that we found he had been gradually driven from 
his magnificent suite of rooms au premier, to a little chamber in 
the fifth story : — we mounted, and found him. It was a little 
shabby room, with a few articles of rickety furniture, and a 
bed in an alcove ; the light from the one window was falling 
full upon the bed and the body. Jack was dressed in a fine 
lawn shirt ; he had kept it, poor fellow, to die in ; for in all his 
drawers and cupboards there was not a single article of cloth- 
ing ; he had pawned everything by which he could raise a 
penny — desk, books, dressing-case, and clothes ; and not a 
single half penny was found in his possession. 

He was lying with one hand on his breast, the other falling 
towards the ground. There was an expression of perfect 



A GAMBLER'S DEATH. 107 

calm on the face, and no mark of blood to stain the side 
towards the light. On the other side, however, there was a 
great pool of black blood, and in it the pistol ; it looked more 
like a toy than a weapon to take away the life of this vigor- 
ous young man. In his forehead, at the side, was a small black 
wound ; Jack's life had passed through it ; it was little bigger 

than a mole. 

* # * # * 

" Regardez un peu," said the landlady, "messieurs, il m a 
gate trois matelas, et il me doit quarante-quatre francs." 

This was all his epitaph : he had spoiled three mattresses, 
and owed the landlady four-and-forty francs. In the whole 
world there was not a soul to love him or lament him. We, 
his friends, were looking at his body more as an object of curi- 
osity, watching it with a kind of interest with which one fol- 
lows the fifth act of a tragedy, and leaving it with the same 
feeling with which one leaves the theatre when the play is over 
and the curtain is down. 

Beside Jack's bed, on his little " table de nuit," lay the 
remains of his last meal, and an open letter, which we read. It 
was from one of his suspicious apquaintances of former days, 
and ran thus : 

" Ou es tu, cher Jack? why you not come and see me — tu me dois de I'argent, entends 
tu ? — uu chapeaii, une cachemire, a box of the Play. Viens demain soir, je t'attendrai at 
eight o'clock. Passage des Panoramas. My Sir is at his country. 

" Adieu i demain. 

" Samedi." " Finine." 

I shuddered as I walked through this very Passage des 
Panoramas, in the evening. The girl was there, pacing to and 
fro, and looking in the countenance of every passer-by, to recog- 
nize Attwood. " Adieu a demain ! " — there was a dreadful 
meaning in the words, which the writer of them little knew. 
" Adieu ^ demain ! " — the morrow was come, and the soul of the 
poor suicide was now in the presence of God. I dare not think 
of his fate ; for, except in the fact of his poverty and despera- 
tion, was he worse than any of us, his companions, who had 
shared his debauches, and marched with him up to the very 
brink of the grave ? 

There is but one more circumstance to relate regarding 
poor Jack — his burial ; it was of a piece with his death. 

He was nailed into a paltry coffin and buried, at the ex- 
pense of the arrondissement, in a nook of the burial-place be- 
yond the Barriere de I'Etoile. They buried him at six o'clock, 
of a bitter winter's morning, and it was with difficulty that an 
English clergyman could be found to read a service over his 



io8 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

grave. The three men who have figured in this history acted 
as Jack's mourners ; and as the ceremony was to take place 
so early in the morning, these men sat up the night through, 
and were ahiost drunk as they followed his coffin to its resting 
place. 

MORAL. 

" When we turned out in our great-coats," said one of them 

afterwards, "reeking of cigars and brandy-and-water, d e, 

sir, we quite frightened the old buck of a parson ; he did not 
much like our company." After the ceremony was concluded, 
these gentlemen were very happy to get home to a warm and 
comfortable breakfast and finished the day royally at Frascati's. 



NAPOLEON AND HIS SYSTEM. 



Any person who recollects the history of the absurd out- 
break of Strasburg, in which Prince Louis Napoleon Bonaparte 
figured, three years ago, must remember that, however silly the 
revolt was, however foolish its pretext, however doubtful its 
aim, and inexperienced its leader, there was, nevertheless, a 
party, and a considerable one in France, that were not unwilling 
to lend the new projectors their aid. The troops who declared 
against the Prince were, it was said, all but willing to declare 
for him ; and it was certain that, in many of the regiments of 
the army, there existed a strong spirit of disaffection, and an 
eager wish for the return of the imperial system and family. 

As to the good that was to be derived from the change, that 
is another question. Why the Emperor of the French should 
be better than the King of the French, or the King of the 
French better than the King of France and Navarre, it is not 
our business to inquire ; but all the three monarchs have no 
lack of supporters ; republicanism has no lack of supporters ; 
St. Simonianism was followed by a respectable body ,of ad- 
mirers ; Robespierrism has a select party of friends. If, in a 
country where so many quacks have had their day. Prince Louis 
Napoleon thought he might renew the imperial quackery, why 
should he not ? It has recollections with it that must always 
be dear to a gallant nation ; it has certain claptraps in its 
vocabulary that can never fail to inflame a vain, restless, grasp- 
ing, disappointed one. 



NAPOLEON AND HIS SYSTEM. 109 

In the first place, and don't let me endeavor to disguise it, 
they hate us. Not all the protestations of friendship, not all 
the wisdom of Lord Palmerston, not all the diplomacy of our 
distinguished plenipotentiary, Mr. Henry Lytton Bulwer — and 
let us add, not all the benefit which both countries would derive 
from the alliance — can make it, in our times- at least, perma- 
nent and cordial. They hate us. The Carlist organs revile us 
with a querulous fury that never sleeps ; the moderate party, if 
they admit the utility of our alliance, are continually pointing 
out our treachery, our insolence, and our monstrous infractions 
of it ; and for the Republicans, as sure as the morning comes, 
the columns of their journals thunder out volleys of fierce de- 
nunciations against our unfortunate country. They live by 
feeding the natural hatred against England, by keeping old 
wounds open, by recurring ceaselessly to the history of old 
quarrels, and as in these we, by God's help, by land and by sea, 
in old times and in late, have had the uppermost, they perpet- 
uate the shame and mortification of the losing party, the bitter- 
ness of past defeats, and the eager desire to avenge them. A 
party which knows how to cxploiie?- this hatred will always be 
popular to a certain extent ; and the imperial scheme has this, 
at least, among its conditions. 

Then there is the favorite claptrap of the " natural fron- 
tier." The Frenchman yearns to be bounded by the Rhine 
and the Alps ; and next follows the cry, *' Let France take her 
place among nations, and direct, as she ought to do, the affairs 
of Europe." These are the two chief articles contained in the 
new imperial programme, if we may credit the journal which 
has been established to advocate the cause. A natural boun- 
dary — stand among the nations — popular development — Rus- 
sian alliance, and a reduction of la perfide Albion to its proper 
insignificance. As yet we know little more of the plan : and 
yet such foundations are sufficient to build a party upon, and 
with such windy weapons a substantial Government is to be 
overthrown ! 

In order to give these doctrines, such as they are, a chance 
of finding favor with his countrymen. Prince Louis has the 
advantage of being able to refer to a former great professor of 
them — his uncle Napoleon. His attempt is at once pious and 
prudent ; it exalts the memory of the uncle, and furthers the 
interests of the nephew, who attempts to show what Napokon's 
ideas really were ;^ what good had already resulted from the 
practice of them ; how cruelly they had been thwarted by 
foreign wars and difficulties ; and what vast benefits would 



no THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

have resulted from them ; ay, and (it is reasonable to conclude) 
might still, if the French nation would be wise enough to pitch 
upon a governor that would continue the interrupted scheme. 
It is, however, to be borne in mind that the Emperor Napoleon 
had certain arguments in favor of his opinions for the time 
being, which his nephew has not employed. On the 13th Ven- 
demiaire, when General Bonaparte believed in the excellence 
of a Directory, it may be remembered that he aided his opin- 
ions by forty pieces of artillery, and by Colonel Murat at the 
head of his dragoons. There was no resisting such a philoso- 
pher ; the Directory was established forthwith, and the sacred 
cause of the minority triumphed. In like manner, when the 
General was convinced of the weakness of the Directory, and 
saw fully the necessity of establishing a Consulate, what were 
his arguments.? Moreau, Lannes, Murat, Berthier, Leclerc, 
Lefebvre — gentle apostles of the truth ! — marched to St. Cloud, 
and there, with fixed bayonets, caused it to prevail. Error 
vanished in an instant. At once five hundred of its high- 
priests tumbled out of windows, and lo ! three Consuls ap- 
peared to guide the destinies of France ! How much more 
expeditious, reasonable, and clinching was this a:rgument of 
the i8th Brumaire, than any one that can be found in any pam- 
phlet ! A fig for your duodecimos and octavos ! Talk about 
points, there are none like those at the end of a bayonet ; and 
the most powerful of styles is a good rattling " article " from 
a nine-pounder. 

At least this is our interpretation of the manner in which 
were always propagated the Idecs NapoUoniennes. Not such, 
however, is Prince Louis's belief ; and, if you wish to go along 
with him in opinion, you will discover that a more liberal, 
peaceable, prudent Prince never existed : you will read that 
" the mission of Napoleon " was to be the " testame?itary execu- 
tor of the revolution ; " and the Prince should have added the 
legatee ; or, more justly still, as well as the executor, he should 
be called the executioner, and then his title would be complete. 
In Vendemiaire, the military Tartuffe, he threw aside the Revo- 
lution's natural heirs, and made her, as it were, alter her will ; 
on the i8th of Brumaire he strangled her, and on the 19th 
seized on her property, and kept it until force deprived him of 
it. Illustrations, to be sure, are no arguments, but the example 
is the Prince's, not ours. 

In the Prince's eyes, then, his uncle is a god ; of all mon- 
archs, the most wise, upright, and merciful. Thirty years ago 
the opinion had millions of supporters ; while millions again 



NAPOLEON AND HIS SYSTEM. 1 1 1 

were ready to avouch the exact contrary. It is curious to think 
of the former difference of opinion concerning Napoleon ; 
and, in reading his nephew's rapturous encomiums of him, one 
goes back to the days when we ourselves were as loud and mad 
in his dispraise. Who does not remember his own personal 
hatred ancl horror, twenty-five years ago, for the man whom we 
used to call the •' bloody Corsican upstart and assassin .? " 
What stories <did we not believe of him ? — what murders, rapes, 
robberies, not lay to his charge ? — we who were living within a 
few miles of his territory, and might, by books and newspapers, 
be made as well acquainted with his merits or demerits as any 
of his own countrymen. 

Then was the age when the Idees Napoleofiiennes might have 
passed through many editions ; for while we were thus outra- 
geously bitter, our neighbors were as extravagantly attached to 
him by a strange infatuation — adored him like a god, whom we 
chose to consider as a fiend ; and vowed that, under his gov- 
ernment, their nation had attained its highest pitch of grandeur 
and glory. In revenge there existed in England (as is proved 
by a thousand authentic documents) a monster so hideous, a 
tyrant so ruthless and bloody, that the world's history cannot 
show his parallel. This ruffianv's name was, during the early 
part of the French revolution, Pittetcobourg. Pittetcobourg's 
emissaries were in every corner of France; Pittetcobourg's 
gold chinked in the pockets of every traitor in Europe ; it men- 
aced the life of the god-like Robespierre ; it drove into cellars 
and fits of delirium even the gentle philanthropist Marat ; it 
fourteen times caused the dagger to be lifted against the bosom 
of the First Consul, Emperor, and King, — that first, great, 
glorious, irresistible, cowardly, contemptible, bloody hero and 
fiend, Bonaparte, before mentioned. 

On our side of the Channel we have had leisure, long since, 
to reconsider our verdict against Napoleon ; though, to be sure, 
we have not changed our opinion about Pittetcobourg. After 
five-and-thirty years all parties bear witness to his honesty, and 
speak with affectionate reverence of his patriotism, his genius, 
and his private virtue. In France, however, or, at least, among 
certain parties in France, there has been no such modification of 
opinion. With the Republicans, Pittetcobourg is Pittetcobourg 
still, — crafty, bloody, seeking whom he may devour; 2iX\d perjide 
Albion more perfidious than ever. This hatred is the point of 
anion between the Republic and the Empire ; it has been fos- 
tered ever since, and must be continued by Prince Louis, if he 
"luld hope to conciliate both parties. 



tJ2 THE PARTS SKETCH- BOOK. 

With regard to the Emperor, then, Prince Louis erects to 
his memory as fine a monument as his wits can raise. One 
need not say that the imperial apologist's opinion should be re- 
ceived with the utmost caution ; for a man who has such a hero 
for an uncle may naturally be proud of and partial to him ; and 
when this nephew of the great man would be his heir, likewise, 
and, bearing his name, step also into his imperial shoes, one 
may reasonably look for much affectionate panegyric. " The 
empire was the best of empires," cries the Prince ; and possibly 
it was ; undoubtedly, the Prince thinks it was ; but he is the very 
last person who would convince a man with the proper suspi- 
cious impartiality. One remembers a certain consultation of 
politicians which is recorded in the Spelling-book ; and the 
opinion of that patriotic sage who avowed that, for a real 
blameless constitution, an impenetrable shield for liberty, and 
cheap defence of nations, there was nothing like leather. 

Let us examine some of the Prince's article. If we may be 
allowed humbly to express an opinion, his leather is not only 
quite insufficient for those vast public purposes for which he 
destines it, but is, moreover, and in itself, very bad leather. The 
hides are poor, small, unsound slips of skin ; or, to drop this 
cobbling metaphor, the style is not particularly brilliant, the 
facts not very startling, and, as for the conclusions, one may 
differ with almost every one of them. Here is an extract from 
his first chapter, " on governments in general : " — 

" I speak it with regret, I can see but two governments, at 
this day, which fulfil the mission that Providence has confided 
to them ; they are the two colossi at the end of the world ; one 
at the extremity of the old world, the other at the extremity of 
the new. Whilst our old European centre is as a volcano, con- 
suming itself in its crater, the two nations of the East and the 
West, march, without hesitation, towards perfection ; the one 
under the will of a single individual, the other under liberty. 

" Providence has confided to the United States of North 
America the task of peopling and civilizing that immense terri- 
tory which stretches from the Atlantic to the South Sea, and 
from the North Pole to the Equator. The Government, which 
is oaly a simple administration, has only hitherto been called 
upon to put in practice the old adage, Lais s ez /aire ^ laissez passer^ 
in order to favor that irresistible instinct which pushes the 
people of America to the west. 

" In Russia it is to the imperial dynasty that is owing all th& 
vast progress which, in a century and a half, has rescued that 
empire from barbarism. The imperial power must conten 



NAPOLEON AND HIS SYSTEM. 



113 



against all the ancient prejudices of our old Europe ; it must 
centralize, as far as possible, all the powers of the state in the 
hands of one person, in order to destroy the abuses which the 
feudal and communal franchises have served to perpetuate. 
The last alone can hope to receive from it the improvements 
which it expects. 

" But thou, France of Henry IV., of Louis XIV., of Carnot, 
of Napoleon — thou, who wert always for the west of Europe 
the source of progress, who possessest in thyself the two great 
pillars of empire, the genius for the arts of peace and the genius 
of war — hast thou no further mission to fulfil ? Wilt thou never 
cease to waste thy force and energies in intestine struggles ? 
No ; such cannot be thy destiny : the day will soon come, when, 
to govern thee, it will be necessary to understand that thy part 
is to place in all treaties thy sword of Brennus on the side of 
civilization." 

These are the conclusions of the Prince's remarks upon 
governments in general ; and it must be supposed that the 
reader is very little wiser at the end than at the beginning. 
But two governments in the world fulfil their mission : the one 
government, which is no government ; the other, which is a 
despotism. The duty of France is in all treaties io place her 
sword of Brennus in the scale of civilization. Without quarrel- 
ling with the somewhat confused language of the latter propo- 
sition, may we ask what, in heaven's name, is the meaning of 
the three ? What is this epee de Brennus ? and how is France 
to use it ? Where is the great source of political truth, from 
which, flowing pure, we trace American republicanism in one 
stream, Russian despotism in another 1 Vastly prosperous is 
the great republic, if you will : if dollars and cents constitute 
happiness, there is plenty for all : but can any one, who has 
read of the American doings in the late frontier troubles, and 
the daily disputes on the slave question, praise the Government 
of the States .'' — a Government which dares not punish homi- 
cide or arson performed before its very eyes, and which the 
pirates of Texas and the pirates of Canada can brave at their 
will t There is no government, but a prosperous anarchy ; as 
the Prince's other favorite government is a prosperous slavery. 
What, then, is to be the epee de Bren7ius government .'* Is it to 
be a mixture of the two ? " Society," writes the Prince, axio- 
matically, " contains in itself two principles — the one of pro- 
gress and immortality, the other of disease and disorganization." 
No doubt ; and as the one tends towards liberty, so the other 
is only to be cured by order : and then, with a singular felicity, 

8 



114 



THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 



Prince Louis picks us out a couple of governments, in one of 
which the common regulating power is as notoriously too weak, 
as it is in the other too strong, and talks in rapturous terms of 
the manner in which they fulfil their "providential mission ! " 

From these considerations on things in general, the Prince 
conducts us to Napoleon in particular, and enters largely into 
a discussion of the merits of the imperial system. Our author 
speaks of the Emperor's advent in the following grandiose 
way : — 

" Napoleon, on amving at the public stage, saw that his 
part was to be the testamentary executor of the Revolution. The 
destructive fire of parties was extinct ; and when the Revolu- 
tion, dying, but not vanquished, delegated to Napoleon the ac- 
complishment of her last will, she said to him, ' Establish upon 
solid bases the principal result of my efforts. Unite divided 
Frenchmen. Defeat feudal Europe that is leagued against me. 
Cicatrize my wounds. Enlighten the nations. Execute that 
in width, which I have had to perform in depth. Be for Europe 
what I have been for P>ance. And, even if you must water 
the tree of civilization with your blood — if you must see your 
projects misunderstood, and your sons without a country, wan- 
dering over the face of the earth, never abandon the sacred 
cause of the French people. Insure its triumph by all the 
means which genius can discover and humanity approve.' 

" This grand mission Napoleon performed to the end. His 
task was difficult. He had to place upon new principles a 
society still boiling with hatred and revenge ; and to use, for 
building up, the same instruments which had been employed 
for pulling down. 

" The common lot of every new truth that arises, is to wound 
rather than to convince — rather than to gain proselytes, to 
awaken fear. For, oppressed as it long has been, it rushes 
forward with additional force ; having to encounter obstacles, 
it is compelled to combat them, and overthrow them ; until, at 
length, comprehended and adopted by the generality, it be- 
comes the basis of new social order. 

" Liberty will follow the same march as the Christian reli 
gion. Armed with death from the ancient society of Rojne, it 
for a long while excited the hatred and fear of the people. At 
last, by force of martyrdoms and persecutions, the religion of 
Christ penetrated into the conscience and the soul ; it soon 
had kings and armies at its orders, and Constantine and Char- 
lemagne bore it triumphant throughout Europe. Religion then 
laid down her arms of war. It laid open to all the principles 



NAPOLEON AND HIS SYSTEM. 



1^5 



of peace and order which it contained ; it became the prop of 
government, as it was the organizing element of society. Thus 
will it DC with liberty. In 1793 it frightened people and sover- 
eigns alike ; then, having clothed itself in a milder garb, it in- 
simiateditself everywhere i?i the traifi of our battalions. In 181 5 
all parties adopted its flag, and armed themselves with its moral 
force — covered themselves with its colors. The adoption was 
not sincere, and liberty was soon obliged to re-assume its war- 
like accoutrements. With the contest their fears returned. Let 
us hope that they will soon cease, and that liberty will soon re- 
sume her peaceful standards, to quit them no more. 

" The Emperor Napoleon contributed more than any one 
else towards accelerating the reign of liberty, by saving the 
moral influence of the revolution, and diminishing the fears 
which it imposed. Without the Consulate and the Empire, 
the revolution would have been only a grand drama, leaving 
grand revolutions but no traces : the revolution would have 
been drowned in the counter-revolution. The contrary, how- 
ever, was the case. Napoleon rooted the revolution in France, 
and introduced, throughout Europe, the principal benefits 
of the crisis of 1789. To use his own words, ' He purified 
the revolution, he confirmed Kings, and ennobled people.' 
He purified the revolution, in separating the truths which it 
contained from the passions that, during its delirium, disfig- 
ured it. He ennobled the people in giving them the con- 
sciousness of their force, and those institutions which raise men 
in their own eyes. 'The Emperor may be considered as the 
Messiah of the new ideas ; for — and we must confess it — in 
the moments immediately succeeding a social revolution, it is 
not so essential to put rigidly into practice all the propositions 
resulting from the new theory, but to become master of the re- 
generative genius, to identify one's self with the sentiments of 
the people, and boldly to direct them towards the desired point. 
To accomi^ish such a task your Jih'e should respond to that of 
the people^ as the Emperor said ; you should feel like it, your 
interests should be so intimately raised with its own, that you 
should vanquish or fall together." 

Let us take breath after these big phrases, — grand round 
figures of speech, — which, when put together, amount like cer- 
tain other combinations of round figures, to exactly o. We 
shall not stop to argue the merits and demerits of Prince 
Louis's notable comparison between the Christian religion and 
the Imperial-revolutionary system. There are many blunders 
in the above extract as we read it ; blundering metaphors, 



J 1 5 THE PARIS SKE TCH BOOK. 

blundering arguments, and blundering assertions ; but this is 
surely the grandest bkinder of all ; and one wonders at the 
blindness of the legislator and historian who can advance such 
a parallel. And what are we to say of the legacy of the dying 
revolution to Napoleon ? Revolutions do not die, and, on 
their death-beds, making fine speeches, hand over their prop- 
erty to young officers of artillery. We have all read the 
history of his rise. The constitution of the year III. was car- 
ried. Old men of the Montague, disguised royalists, Paris 
sections, Fittetcobourg^ above all, with his money-bags, thought 
that here was a fine opportunity for a revolt, and opposed the 
new constitution in arms : the new constitution had knowledge 
of a young officer, who would not hesitate to defend its cause, 
and who effectually beat the majority. The tale may be found 
in every account of the revolution, and the rest of his story 
need not be told. We know every step that he took : we know 
how, by doses of cannon-balls promptly administered, he cured 
the fever of the sections — that fever which another camp- 
physician (Menou) declined to prescribe for ; we know how he 
abolished the Directory ; and how the Consulship came ; and 
then the Empire ; and then the disgrace, exile, and lonely 
death. Has not all this been written by historians in all 
tongues ? — by memoir-writing pages, chamberlains, marshals, 
lackeys, secretaries, contemporaries, and ladies of honor ? Not 
a word of miracle is there in all this narration ; not a word of 
celestial missions, or political Messiahs. From Napoleon's 
rise to his fall, the bayonet marches alongside of him ; now he 
points it at the tails of the scampering " five hundred," — now 
he charges with it across the bloody planks of Areola — now 
he flies before it over the fatal plain of Waterloo. 

Unwilling, however, as he may be to grant that there are 
any spots in the character of his hero's government, the Prince 
is, nevertheless, obliged to allow that such existed ; that the 
Emperor's manner of rule was a little more abrupt and dic- 
tatorial than might possibly be agreeable. For this the Prince 
has always an answer ready — it is the same poor one that Na- 
poleon uttered a million of times to his companions in exile — 
the excuse of necessity. He would hcivQ been very liberal, but 
that the people were not fit for it ; or that the cursed war pre- 
vented him — or any other reason why. His first duty, how- 
ever, says his apologist, was to form a general union of French- 
men, and he set about his plan in this wise : — 

" Let us not forget, that all which Napoleon undertook, in 
order to create a general fusion, he performed without renoun- 



NAPOLEON AND HIS SYSTEM, 



117 



cing the principles of the revolution. He recalled the emigres, 
without touching upon the law by which their goods had been 
confiscated and sold as public property. He re-established 
the Catholic religion at the same time that he proclaimed the 
liberty of conscience, and endowed equally the ministers of all 
sects. He caused himself to be consecrated by the Sovereign 
Pontiff, without conceding to the Pope's demand any of the 
liberties of the Galilean church. He married a daughter of the 
Emperor of Austria, without abandoning any of the rights of 
France to the conquests she had made. He re-established 
noble titles, without attaching to them any privileges or pre- 
rogatives, and these titles were conferred on all ranks, on all 
services, on all professions. Under the empire all idea of caste 
was destroyed ; no man ever thought of vaunting his pedigree 
■ — no man ever was asked how he was born, but what he had 
done. 

" The first quality of a people which aspires to liberal gov- 
ernment, is respect to the law. Now, a law has no other power 
than lies in the interest which each citizen has to defend or to 
contravene it. In order to make a people respect the law, it 
was necessary that it should be executed in the interest of all, 
and should consecrate the principle of equality in all its exten- 
sion. It was necessary to restore the prestige with which the 
Government had been formerly invested, and to make the prin- 
ciples of the revolution take root in the public manners. At 
the commencement of a new society, it is the legislator who 
makes or corrects the manner ; later, it is the manners which 
make the law, or preserve it, from age to age intact." 

Some of these fusions are amusing. No man in the empire 
was asked how he was born, but what he had done ; and, ac- 
cordingly, as a man's actions were sufficient to illustrate him, 
the Emperor took care to make a host of new title-bearers, 
princes, dukes, barons, and what not, v/hose rank has descended 
to their children. He married a princess of Austria ; but, for 
all that, did not abandon his conquests — perhaps not actually ; 
but he abandoned his allies, and, eventually, his whole kingdom. 
Who does not recollect his answer to the Poles, at the com- 
mencement of the Russian campaign ? But for Napoleon's 
imperial father-in-law, Poland would have been a kingdom, and 
his race, perhaps, imperial still. Why was he to fetch this 
princess out of Austria to make heirs for his throne .? Why did 
not the man of the people marry a girl of the people ? Why 
must he have a Pope to crown him — half a dozen kings for 
brothers, and a bevy of aides-de-camp dressed out like so many 



1 1 8 THE PARIS SKE TCH BOOK, 

mountebanks from Astley's, with dukes' coronets, and grand 
blue velvet marshals' batons ? We have repeatedly his words 
for it. He wanted to create an aristocracy — another acknowl- 
edgment on his part of the Republican dilemma — another 
apology for the revolutionary blunder. To keep the republic 
within bounds, a despotism is necessary ; to rally round the 
despotism, an aristocracy must be created ; and for what have 
we been laboring all this while 1 for what have bastiles been 
battered down, and kings' heads hurled, as a gage of battle, in 
the face of armed Europe ? To have a Duke of Otranto in- 
stead of a Duke de la Tremouille, and Emperor Stork in place 
of King Log. O lame conclusion ! Is the blessed revolution 
which is prophesied for us in England only to end in establish- 
ing a Prince Fergus O'Connor, or a Cardinal Wade, or a Duke 
Daniel Whittle Harvey ? Great as those patriots are, we love 
them better under their simple family names, and scorn titles 
and coronets. 

At present, in France, the delicate matter of titles seems to 
be better arranged, any gentleman, since the Revolution, being 
free to adopt any one he may fix upon ; and it appears that the 
Crown no longer confers any patents of nobility, but contents 
itself with saying, as in the case of M. de Pontois, the other 
day, '' Le Roitrouve convenahle that you take the title of," &c. 

To execute the legacy of the revolution, then ; to fulfil his 
providential mission ; to keep his place, — in other words, for 
the simplest are always the best, — to keep his place, and to 
keep his Government in decent order, the Emperor was obliged 
to establish a military despotism, to re-establish honors and 
titles ; it was necessary, as the Prince confesses, to restore the 
old prestige of the Government, in order to make the people 
respect it ; and he adds — a truth which one hardly would expect 
from him, — " At the commencement of a new society, it is the 
legislator who makes and corrects the manners ; later, it is the 
manners which preserve the laws." Of course, and here is the 
great risk that all revolutionizing people run — they must tend 
to despotism ; " they must personify themselves in a man," is 
the Prince's phrase ; and, according as is his temperament or 
disposition — according as he is a Cromwell, a Washington, or a 
Napoleon — the revolution becomes tyranny or freedom, prospers 
or falls. 

Somewhere in the St. Helena memorials, Napoleon reports 
a message of his to the Pope. "Tell the Pope," he says to an 
archbishop, " to remember that I have six hundred thousand 
armed Frenchmen, qui viarcheront avec moiy pour moi^ et comme 



NAPOLEON AND HIS SYSTEM. 



119 



moiy And this is the legacy of the revolution, the advance- 
ment of freedom ! A hundred volumes of imperial special 
pleading will not avail against such a speech as this — one 
so insolent, and at the same time so humiliating, which 
gives unwittingly the whole of the Emperor's progress, strength, 
and weakness. The six hundred thousand armed Frenchmen 
were used up, and the whole fabric falls ; the six hundred 
thousand are reduced to sixty thousand, and straightway all the 
rest of the fine imperial scheme vanishes : the miserable senate, 
so crawling and abject but now, becomes of a sudden endowed 
with a wondrous independence ; the miserable sham nobles, 
sham empress, sham kings, dukes, princes, chamberlains, pack 
up their plumes an^ embroideries, pounce upon what money 
and plate they can lay their hands on, and when the allies 
appear before Paris, when for courage and manliness there is 
yet hope, when with fierce marches hastening to the relief of 
his capital, bursting through ranks upon ranks of the enemy, 
and crushing or scattering them from the path of his swift and 
victorious despair, the Emperor at last is at home, — where are 
the great dignitaries and the lieutenant-generals of the Empire ? 
Where is Maria Louisa, the Empress Eagle, with her little 
callow King of Rome ? Is she going to defend her nest and 
her eaglet ? Not she. Empress-queen, lieutenant-general, and 
court dignitaries, are off on the wings of all the winds — -profli- 
gati sunt, they are away with the money-bags, and Louis Stan- 
islas Xavier rolls into the palace of his fathers. 

With regard to Napoleon's excellence as an administrator, 
a legislator, a constructor of public works, and a skilful finan- 
cier, his nephew speaks with much diffuse praise, and few 
persons, we suppose, will be disposed to contradict him. 
Whether the Emperor composed his famous code, or borrowed 
it, is of little importance : but he established it, and made the 
law equal for every man in France except one. His vast pub- 
lic works and vaster wars were carried on without new loans or 
exorbitant taxes ; it was only the blood and liberty of the people 
that were taxed, and we shall want a better advocate than 
Prince Louis to show us that these were not most unnecessarily 
and lavishly thrown away. As for the former and material 
improvements, it is not necessary to confess here that a 
despotic energy can effect such far more readily than a Govern- 
ment of which the strength is diffused in many conflicting 
parties. No doubt, if we could create a despotic government 
machine, a steam autocrat, — passionless, untiring, and supreme, 
— we should advance further, and live more at ease than under 



I20 THE PARIS SKETCH BOO A: 

any other form of government. Ministers might enjoy their 
pensions and follow their own devices ; Lord John might com- 
pose histories or tragedies at his leisure, and Lord Palmerston, 
instead of racking his brains to write leading articles for Cupid, 
might crown his locks with flowers, and sing idojra ixovvovj his 
natural Anacreontics ; but alas, not so : if the despotic Govern- 
ment has its good side. Prince Louis Napoleon must acknowl- 
edge that it has its bad, and it is for this that the civilized 
world is compelled to substitute for it something more orderly 
and less capricious. Good as the Imperial Government might 
have been, it must be recollected, too, that since its first fall, 
both the Emperor and his admirer and would-be successor 
have had the chance of re-establishing it.^ " Fly from steeple 
to steeple " the eagles of the former did actually, and according 
to promise perch for a while on the towers of Notre Dame. 
We know the event : if the fate of war declared against the 
Emperor, the country declared against him too ; and, with old 
Lafayette for a mouthpiece, the representatives of the nation 
did, in a neat speech, pronounce themselves in permanence, 
but spoke no more of the Emperor than if he had never been. 
Thereupon the Emperor proclaimed his son the Emperor Napo- 
leon IL " L'Empereur est mort, vive I'Empereur ! " shouted 
Prince Lucien. Psha ! not a soul echoed the words : the play 
was played, and as for old Lafayette and his " permanent " 
representatives, a corporal with a hammer nailed up the door 
of their spouting-club, and once more Louis Stanislas Xavier 
rolled back to the bosom of his people. 

In like manner Napoleon III. returned from exile, and made 
his appearance on the frontier. His eagle appeared at Stras- 
burg, and from Strasburg advanced to the capital ; but it 
arrived at Paris with a keeper, and in a post-chaise ; whence, by 
the orders of the sovereign, it was removed to the American 
shores, and there magnanimously let loose. Who knows, how- 
ever, how soon it may be on the wing again, and what a flight 
it will take t 



THE STOJ^ V OF MAR Y ANCEL. 

" Go, my nephew," said old Father Jacob to me," and com- 
plete thy studies at Strasburg : Heaven surely hath ordained 
thee for the ministry in these times of trouble, and my excel- 
lent friend Schneider will work out the divine intention." 



THE STORY OF MARY ANCEL. 121 

Schneider was an old college friend of uncle Jacob's, was a 
Benedictine monk, and a man famous for his learning ; as for 
me, I was at that time my uncle's chorister, clerk, and sacristan ; 
I swept the church, chanted the prayers with my shrill treble, 
and swung the great copper incense-pot on Sundays and feasts ; 
and I toiled over the Fathers for the other days of the week. 

The old gentleman said that my progress was prodigious, 
and, without vanity, I believe he was right, for I then verily con- 
sidered that praying was my vocation, and not fighting, as I 
have found since. 

You would hardly conceive (said the Captain, swearing a 
great oath) how devout and how learned I was in those days ; 
I talked Latin faster than my own beautiful /«-/<?/>$• of Alsatian 
French ; I could utterly overthow in argument every Protestant 
(heretics we called them) parson in the neighborhood, and 
there was a confounded sprinkling of these unbelievers in our 
part of the country. I prayed half a dozen times a day ; I 
fasted thrice in a week ; and, as for penance, I used to scourge 
my little sides, till they had no more feeling than a peg-top : 
such was the godly life I led at my uncle Jacob's in the village 
of Steinbach. 

Our family had long dwelf in this place, and a large farm 
and a pleasant house was then in the possession of another 
uncle — uncle Edward. He was the youngest of the three sons 
of my grandfather ; but Jacob, the elder, had shown a decided 
vocation for the church, from, I believe, the age of three, and 
now was by no means tired of it at sixty. My father, who was 
to have inherited the paternal property, was, as I hear, a terri- 
ble scamp and scapegrace, quarrelled with his family, and 
disappeared altogether, living and dying at Paris ; so far as we 
knew through my mother, who came, poor woman, with me, 
a child of six months, on her bosom, was refused all shelter by 
my grandfather, but was housed and kindly cared for by my 
good uncle Jacob. 

Here she lived for about seven years, and the old gentleman, 
when she died, wept over her grave a great deal more than I 
did, who was then too young to mind anything but toys or 
sweetmeats. 

During this time my grandfather was likewise carried off : 
he left, as I said, the property to his son Edward, with a small 
proviso in his will that something should be done for me, his 
grandson. 

Edward was himself a widower, with one daughter, Mary, 
Sibout three years older than I, and certainly she was the dear- 



122 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK, 

est little treasure with which Providence ever blest a miserly 
father ; by the time she was fifteen, five farmers, three lawyers, 
twelve Protestant parsons, and a lieutenant of Dragoons had 
made her offers : it must not be denied that she was an heiress 
as well as a beauty, which, perhaps, had something to do with 
the love of these gentlemen. However, Mary declared that 
she intended to live single, turned away her lovers one after 
another, and devoted herself to the care of her father. 

Uncle Jacob was as fond of her as he was of any saint or 
martyr. As for me, at the mature age of twelve I had made 
a kind of divinity of her, and when we sang ** Ave Maria " on 
Sundays I could not refrain from turning to her, where she 
knelt blushing and praying and looking like an angel, as she 
was. Besides her beauty, Mary had a thousand good qualities ; 
she could play better on the harpsichord, she could dance 
more lightly, she could make better pickles and puddings, than 
any girl in Alsace ; there was not a want or a fancy of the old 
hunks her father, or a wish of mine or my uncle's, that she would 
not gratify if she could ; as for herself, the sweet soul had neither 
wants nor wishes except to see us happy. 

I could talk to you for a year of all the pretty kindnesses 
that she would do for me ; how, when she found me of early 
mornings among my books, her presence "would cast a light 
upon the day ; " how she used to smooth and fold my little 
surplice, and embroider me caps and gowns for high feast-days ; 
how she used to bring flowers for the altar, and who could deck 
it so well as she ? But sentiment does not come glibly from 
under a grizzled mustache, so I will drop it, if you please. 

Amongst other favors she showed me, Mary used to be par- 
ticularly fond of kissing me : it was a thing I did not so much 
value in those days, but I found that the more I grew alive to the 
extent of the benefit, the less she would condescend to confer 
it on me ; till, at last when I was about fourteen, she discontin- 
ued it altogether, of her own wish at least ; only sometimes I 
used to be rude, and take what she had now become so mighty 
unwilling to give. 

I was engaged in a contest of this sort one day with Mary, 
when, just as I was about to carry off a kiss from her cheek, I 
was saluted with a staggering slap on my own, which was be- 
stowed by uncle Edward, and sent me reeling some yards down 
the garden. 

The old gentleman, whose tongue was generally as close as 
his purse, now poured forth a flood of eloquence which quite 
astonished me. I did not think that so much was to be said 



THE STORY OF MARY ANCEL. 



123 



on any subject as he managed to utter on one, and that was 
abuse of me : he stamped, he swore, he screamed ; and then, 
from complimenting me, he turned to Mary, and saluted her in 
a manner equally forcible and significant ; she, who was very 
much frightened at the comencement of the scene, grew very 
angry at the coarse words he used, and the wicked motives 
he imputed to her. 

"The child is but fourteen," she said; "he is your own 
nephew, and a candidate for holy orders : — father, it is a shame 
that you should thus speak of me, your daughter, or of one of 
his holy profession." 

I did not particularly admire this speech myself, but it had 
an effect on my uncle, and was the cause of the words with 
which this history commences. The old gentleman persuaded 
his brother that I must be sent to Strasburg, and there kept 
until my studies for the church were concluded. I was fur- 
nished with a letter to my uncle's old college chum, Professor 
Schneider, who was to instruct me in theology and Greek. 

I was not sorry to see Strasburg, of the wonders of which 
I had heard so much ; but felt very loth as the time drew near 
when I must quit my pretty cousin, and my good old uncle. 
Mary and I managed, however, a parting walk, in which a 
number of tender things were said on both sides. I am told 
that you Englishmen consider it cowardly to cry ; as for me, I 
wept and roared incessantly : when Mary squeezed me, for the 
last time, the tears came out of me as if I had been neither 
more nor less than a great wet sponge. My cousin's eyes 
were stoically dry ; her ladyship had a part to play, and it would 
have been wrong for her to be in love with a young chit of 
fourteen — so she carried herself with perfect coolness, as if 
there was nothing the matter. I should not have known that 
she cared for me, had it not been for the letter which she wrote 
me a month afterwards — then^ nobody was by, and the conse- 
quence was that the letter was half washed away with her weep- 
ing ; if she had used a watering-pot the thing could not have 
been better done. 

Well, I arrived at Strasburg — a dismal, old-fashioned, rick- 
ety town in those days — and straightway presented myself 
and letter at Schneider's door ; over it was written — 

COMITE DE SALUT PUBLIC. 

Would you believe it ? I was so ignorant a young fellow, 
that I had no idea of the meaning of the words ; however, I 



1 2 4 THE PARIS SKE TCH BOOK. 

entered the citizen's room without fear, and sat down in his 
ante-chamber until I could be admitted to see him. 

Here I found very few indications of his reverence's pro- 
fession ; the walls were hung round with portraits of Robespierre, 
Marat, and the like ; a great bust of Mirabeau, mutilated, with 
the Word Traitre underneath ; lists and republican proclama- 
tions, tobacco-pipes and fire-arms. At a deal-table, stained 
with grease and wine, sat a gentleman, with a huge pig-tail 
dangling down to that part of his person which immediately 
succeeds his back, and a red nightcap, containing a tricolor 
cockade as large as a pancake. He was smoking a short 
pipe, reading a little book, and sobbing as if his heart would 
break. Every now and then he would make brief remarks upon 
the personages or the incidents of his book, by which I could 
judge that he was a man of the very keenest sensibilities — " Ah, 
brigand!" "O malheureuse ! " "O Charlotte, Charlotte!" 
The work which this gentleman was perusing is called " The 
Sorrows of Werter ; " it was all the rage in those days, and my 
friend was only following the fashion. I asked him if I could 
see Father Schneider ? he turned towards me a hideous, pim- 
pled face, which I dream of now at forty years' distance. 

"Father who.?" said he. "Do you imagine that citizen 
Schneider has not thrown off the absurd mummery of priest- 
hood t If you were a little older you would go to prison for 
calling him Father Schneider — many a man has died for less ; " 
and he pointed to a picture of a guillotine, which was hanging 
in the room. 

I was in amazement. 

" What is he } Is he not a teacher of Greek, an abbe, a 
monk, until monasteries were abolished, the learned editor of 
the songs of ' Anacreon ? ' " 

" He was all this," replied my grim friend ; " he is now a 
Member of the Committee of Public Safety, and would think 
no more of ordering your head off than of drinking this tum- 
bler of beer." 

He swallowed, himself, the frothy liquid, and then pro- 
ceeded to give me the history of the man to whom my uncle 
had sent me for instruction. 

Schneider was born in 1756 : was a student at Wiirzburg, 
and afterwards entered a convent, where he remained nine 
years. He here became distinguished for his learning and his 
talents as a preacher, and became chaplain to Duke Charles of 
Wiirtemberg. The doctrine of the Illuminati began about 
this time to spread in Germany, and Schneider speedily joined 



THE S rOR Y OF MARY A NCEL. 1 2 5 

the sect. He had been a professor of Greek at Cologne ; and 
being compelled on account of his irregularity, to give up his 
chair, he came to Strasburg at the commencement of the 
French Revolution, and acted for some time a principal part as 
a revolutionary agent at Strasburg. 

[" Heaven knows what would have happened to me had I 
continued long under his tuition ! " said the Captain. " I owe 
the preservation of my morals entirely to my entering the army. 
A man, sir, who is a soldier, has very little time to be wicked ; 
except in the case of a siege and the sack of a town, when a 
little license can offend nobody."] 

By the time that my friend had concluded Schneider's bi- 
ography, we had grown tolerable intimate, and I imparted to 
him (with that experience so remarkable in youth) my whole 
history — my course of studies, my pleasant country life, the 
names and qualities of my dear relations, and my occupations 
in the vestry before religion was abolished by order of the Re- 
public. In the course of my speech I recurred so often to the 
name of my cousin Mary, that the gentlemen could not fail to 
perceive what a tender place she had in my heart. 

Then we reverted to " The Sorrows of Werter," and dis- 
cussed the merits of that sublime performance. Although I 
had before felt some misgivings about my new acquaintance, 
my heart now quite yearned towards him. He talked about 
love and sentiment in a manner which made me recollect that 
I was in love myself ; and you know that when a man is in 
that condition, his taste is not very refined, any maudlin trash 
of prose or verse appearing sublime to him, provided it corre- 
spond, in some degree, with his own situation. 

" Candid youth ! " cried my unknown, " I love to hear thy 
innocent story and look on thy guileless face. There is, alas ! 
so much of the contrary in this world, so much terror and crime 
and blood, that we who mingle with it are only too glad to for- 
get it. Would that we could shake off our cares as men, and 
be boys, as thou art, again ! " 

Here my friend began to weep once more, and fondly shook 
my hand. I blessed my stars that I had, at the very outset of 
my career, met with one who was so likely to aid me. What a 
slanderous world it is, thought I ; the people in our village 
call these Republicans wicked and bloody-minded ; a lamb 
could not be more tender than this sentimental bottle-nosed 
gentleman ! The worthy man then gave me to understand 
that he held a place under Government. • I was busy in en- 
deavoring to discover what his situation might be, when the 



1 2 6 THE PA RIS SKE TCH B O OK. 

door of the next apartment opened, and Schneider made his 
appearance. 

At first he did not notice me, but he advanced to my new 
acquaintance, and gave him, to my astonishment, something 
very like a blow 

" You drunken, talking fool," he said, " you are always after 
your time. Fourteen people are cooling their heels yonder, 
waiting until you have finished your beer and your sentiment ! " 

My friend slunk muttering out of the room. 

*' That fellow," said Schneider, turning to me, " is our 
public excutioner : a capital hand too if he would but keep 
decent time ; but the brute is always drunk, and blubbering 
over ' The Sorrows of Werter ! ' " 

# * * * # 

I know not whether it was his old friendship for my uncle, 
or my proper merits, which won the heart of this the sternest 
ruffian of Robespierre's crew ; but certain it is, that he became 
strangely attached to me, and kept me constantly about his 
person. As for the priesthood and the Greek, they were of 
course very soon out of the question. The Austrians were on 
our frontier ; every day brought us accounts of battles won ; 
and the youth of Strasburg, and of all France, indeed, were 
bursting with military ardor. As for me, I shared the general 
mania, and speedily mounted a cockade as large as that of my 
friend the executioner. 

The occupations of this worthy were unremitting. Saint 
Just, who had come down from Paris to preside over our town, 
executed the laws and the aristocrats with terrible punctuality ; 
and Schneider used to make country excursions in search of 
offenders with this fellow, as a provost-marshal, at his back. 
In the meantime, having entered my sixteenth year, and being 
a proper lad of my age, I had joined a regiment of cavalry, and 
was scampering now after the Austrians who menaced us, and 
now threatening the Emigres, who were banded at Coblentz. 
My love for my dear cousin increased as my whiskers grew ; 
and when I was scarcely seventeen, I thought myself man 
enough to marry her, and to cut the throat of any one who 
should venture to say me nay. 

I need not tell you that during my absence at Strasburg, 
great changes had occurred in our little village, and somewhat 
of the revolutionary rage had penetrated even to that quiet and 
distant place. The hideous " Fete of the Supreme Being " 
had been celebrated at Paris ; the practice of our ancient re- 
ligion was forbidden ; its professors were most of them in con- 



THE STORY OF MARY ANCEL. 



7 



cealment, or in exile, or had expiatefl on the scaffold their 
crime of Christianity. In our poor village my uncle's church 
was closed, and he, himself, an inmate in my brother's house, 
only owing his safety to his great popularity among his former 
flock, and the influence of Edward Ancel. 

The latter had taken in the Revolution a somewhat pro- 
minent part ; that is, he had engaged in many contracts for the 
army, attended the clubs regularly, corresponded with the au- 
thorities of his department, and was loud in his denunciations 
of the aristocrats in the neighborhood. But owing, perhaps, 
to the German origin of the peasantry, and their quiet and rus- 
tic lives, the revolutionary fury which prevailed in the cities 
had hardly reached the country people. The occasional visit 
of a commissary from Paris or Strasburg served to keep the 
flame alive, and to remind the rural swains of the existence of 
a Republic in France. 

Now and then, when I could gain a week's leave of absence, 
I returned to the village, and was received with tolerable polite- 
ness by my uncle, and with a warmer feeling by his daughter. 

I won't describe to you the progress of our love, or the 
wrath of my uncle Edward, when he discovered that it still 
continued. He swore and he* stormed ; he locked Mary into 
her chamber, and vowed that he would withdraw the allowance 
he made me, if ever I ventured near her. His daughter, he 
said, should never marry a hopeless, penniless subaltern ; and 
Mary declared she would not marry without his consent. What 
had I to do ? — to despair and to leave her. As for my poor 
uncle Jacob, he had no counsel to give me, and, indeed, no 
spirit left ; his little church was turned into a stable, his sur- 
plice torn off his shoulders, and he was only too lucky in keep- 
ing his head on them. A bright thought struck him : suppose 
you were to ask the advice of my old friend Schneider regarding 
this marriage ? he has ever been your friend, and may help you 
now as before. 

(Here the Captain paused a little.) You may fancy (con- 
tinued he) that it was droll advice of a reverend gentleman like 
uncle Jacob to counsel me in this manner, and to bid me make 
friends with such a murderous cutthroat as Schneider ; but we 
thought nothing of it in those days ; guillotining was as com- 
mon as dancing, and a man was only thought the better patriot 
the more severe he might be. I departed forthwith to Stras- 
burg, and requested the vote and interest of the Citizen Pres- 
ident of the Committee of Public Safety. 

He heard me with a great deal of attention, I described 



128 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

to him most minutely the circumstance, expatiated upon the 
charms of my dear Mary, and painted her to him from head to 
foot. Her golden hair and her bright blushing cheeks, her 
slim waist and her tripping tiny feet ; and furthermore, I added 
that she possessed a fortune which ought, by rights, to be mine, 
but for the miserly old father. " Curse him for an aristocrat ! " 
concluded I, in my wrath. 

As I had been discoursing about Mary's charms Schneider 
listened with much complacency and attention : when I spoke 
about her fortune, his interest redoubled ; and when I called 
her father an aristocrat, the worthy ex-Jesuit gave a grin of 
satisfaction, which was really quite terrible. O fool that I was 
to trust him so far ! 

* * # * # 

The very same evening an officer waited upon me with the 
following note from Saint Just : — 

" Strasburg, Fifth Year of the Republic, one and 
indivisible, ii Ventose. 
" The citizen Pierre Ancel is to leave Strasburg within two hours, and to carry the 
enclosed despatches to the President of the Committee of Public Safety at Paris. The 
necessary leave of absence from his military duties has been provided. Instant punishment 
will follow the slightest delay on the road. 

" Salut et Fraternite." 

There was no choice but obedience, and off I sped on my 
weary way to the capital. 

As I was riding out of the Paris gate I met an equipage 
which I knew to be that of Schneider. The ruffian smiled at 
me as I passed, and wished me a bon voyage. Behind his 
chariot came a curious machine, or cart ; a great basket, three 
stout poles, and several planks, all painted red, were lying in 
this vehicle, on the top of which was seated my friend with the 
big cockade. It was the portable guillotine which Schneider 
always carried with him on his travels. The boiirreau was 
reading " The Sorrows of Werter," and looked as sentimental 
as usual. 

I will not speak of my voyage in order to relate to you 
Schneider's. My story had awakened the wretch's curiosity 
and avarice, and he was determined that such a prize as I had 
shown my cousin to be should fall into no hands but his own. 
No sooner, in fact, had I quitted his room than he procured 
the order for my absence, and was on the way to Steinbach as 
I met him. 

The journey is not a very long one ; and on the next day 
my uncle Jacob was surprised by receiving a message that the 
citizen Schneider was in the village, and was coming to greet 



THE STOR Y OF MAR Y ANCEL. 1 29 

his old friend. Old Jacob was in an ecstasy, for he /onged to 
see his college acquaintance, and he hoped also that Schneider 
had come into that part of the country upon the marriage- 
business of your humble servant. Of course Mary was sum 
moned to give her best dinner, and wear her best frock ; and 
her father made ready to receive the new State dignitary. 

Schneider's carriage speedily rolled into the court-yard, and 
Schneider's cart followed, as a matter of course. The ex-priest 
only entered the house ; his companion remaining with the 
horses to dine in private. Here was a most touching meeting 
between him and Jacob. They talked over their old college 
pranks and successes ; they capped Greek verses and quoted 
ancient epigrams upon their tutors, who had been dead since 
the Seven Years' War. Mary declared it was quite touching 
to listen to the merry friendly talk of these two old gentlemen. 

After the conversation had continued for a time in this 
strain, Schneider drew up all of a sudden, and said quietly, 
that he had come on particular and unpleasant business — 
hinting about troublesome times, spies, evil reports, and so 
forth. Then he called uncle Edward aside, and had with him 
a long and earnest conversation : so Jacob went out and talked 
with Schneider's friend ; they speedily became very intimate, 
for the ruffian detailed all the circumstances of his interview 
with me. When he returned into the house, some time after 
this pleasing colloquy, he found the tone of the society strangely 
altered. Edward Ancel, pale as a sheet, trembling, and crying 
for mercy ; poor Mary weeping ; and Schneider pacing ener- 
getically about the apartment, raging about the rights of man, 
the punishment of traitors, and the one and indivisible Re- 
public. 

'' Jacob," he said, as my uncle entered the room, " I was 
willing, for the sake of our old friendship, to forget the crimes 
of your brotheil He is a known and dangerous aristocrat ; he 
holds communications with the enemy on the frontier ; he is a 
possessor of great and ill-gotten wealth, of which he has plun- 
dered the Republic. Do you know," said he, turning to Edward 
Ancel, " where the least of these crimes, or the mere suspicion 
of them, would lead you ? " 

Poor Edward sat trembling in his chair, and answered not 
a word. He knew full well how quickly, in this dreadful time, 
punishment followed suspicion ; and, though guiltless of all 
treason with the enemy, perhaps he was aware that, in certain 
contracts with the Government, he had taken to himself a more 
than patriotic share of profit. 

9 



no 



THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 



"Do you know," resumed Schneider, in a voice of thunder, 
*' for what purpose I came hither, and by whom I am accom- 
panied ? I am the administrator of the justice of the Republic. 
The life of yourself and your family is in my hands : yonder 
man, who follows me, is the executor of the law ; he has rid 
the nation of hundreds of wretches like yourself. A single 
word from me, and your doom is sealed without hope, and your 
last hour is come. Ho ! Gregoire ! " shouted he ; " is all 
ready t " 

Gregoire replied from the court, " I can put up the machine 
in half an hour. Shall I go down to the village and call the 
troops and the law people ? " 

" Do you hear him t " said Schneider. " The guillotine is 
in the court-yard ; your name is on my list, and I have wit- 
nesses to prove your crime. Have you a word in your de- 
fence ? " 

Not a word came ; the old gentleman was dumb ; but his 
daughter, who did not give way to his terror, spoke for him. 

"You cannot, sir," said she, "although you say it,7^<f/that 
my father is guilty ; you would not have entered our house thus 
alone if you had thought it. You threaten him in this manner 
because you have something to ask and to gain from us : what 
is it, citizen ? — tell us how much you value our lives, and what 
sum we are to pay for our ransom ? " 

" Sum ! " said uncle Jacob ; " he does not want money of 
us : my old friend, my college chum, does not come hither to 
drive bargains with anybody belonging to Jacob Ancel } " 

" Oh, no, sir, no, you can't want money of us," shrieked 
Edward ; " we are the poorest people of the village ; ruined. 
Monsieur Schneider, ruined in the cause of the Republic." 

"Silence, father," said my brave Mary; " this man wants a 
price : he comes, with his worthy friend yonder, to frighten us, 
not to kill us. If we die, he cannot touch a sou of our money ; 
it is confiscated to the State. Tell us, sir, what is the price of 
our safety t " 

Schneider smiled, and bowed with perfect politeness. 

" Mademoiselle Marie," he said, " is perfectly correct in her 
surmise. I do not want the life of this poor drivelling old man ; 
my intentions are much more peaceable, be assured. It rests 
entirely with this accomplished young lady (whose spirit I like, 
and whose ready wit I admire), whether the business between 
us shall be a matter of love or death. I humbly offer myself, 
citizen Ancel, as a candidate for the hand of your charming 
daughter. Her goodness, her beauty, and the large fortune 



THE STOR Y OF MARY ANCEL. 131 

which I know you intend to give her, would render her a desir- 
able match for the proudest man in the republic, and, I am 
sure, would make me the happiest." 

"This must be a jest, Monsieur Schneider," said Mary, 
trembling, and turning deadly pale : " you cannot mean this ; 
you do notknow me : you never heard of me until to-day." 

" Pardon me, belle dame," replied he ; "your cousin Pierre 
has often talked to me of your virtues ; indeed, it was by his 
special suggestion that I made the visit." 

" It is false ! — it is a base and cowardly lie ! " exclaimed she 
(for the young lady's courage was up), — " Pierre never could 
have forgotten himself and me so as to offer me to one like you. 
You come here with a lie on your lips — a lie against my father, 
to swear his life away, against my dear cousin's honor and love. 
It is useless now to deny it : father, I love Pierre Ancel ; I will 
marry no other but him — no, though our last penny were paid 
to this man as the price of our freedom." 

Schneider's only reply to this was a call to his friend Gre- 
goire. 

" Send down to the village for the maire and some gen- 
darmes ; and tell your people to, make ready." 

" Shall I put the machine up ? " shouted he of the Senti- 
mental turn. 

"You hear him," said Schneider; *^ Marie Ancel, you may 
decide the fate of your father. I shall return in a few hours," 
concluded he, " and will then beg to know your decision." 

The advocate of the rights of man then left the apartment, 
and left the family, as you may imagine, in no very pleasant 
mood. 

Old uncle Jacob, during the few minutes which had elapsed 
in the enactment of this strange scene, sat staring wildly at 
Schneider, and holding Mary on his knees : the poor little 
thing had fled to him for protection, and not to her father, who 
was kneeling almost senseless at the window, gazing at the ex- 
ecutioner and his hideous preparations. The instinct of the 
poor girl had not failed her ; she knew that Jacob was her only 
protector, if not of her life — heaven bless him ! — of her honor. 
"Indeed," the old man said, in a stout voice, " this must never 
be, my dearest child — you must not marry this man. If it be 
the will of Providence that we fall, we shall have at least the 
thought to console us that we die innocent. Any man in 
France at a time like this, would be a coward and a traitor if 
he feared to meet the fate of the thousand brave and good who 
have preceded us." 



132 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

"Who speaks of dying?" said Edward. "You, Brother 
Jacob ? — you would not lay that poor girl's head on the scaffold, 
or mine, your dear brother's. You will not let us die, Mary \ 
you will not, for a small sacrifice, bring your poor old father 
into danger ? " 

Mary made no answer. " Perhaps," she said, " there is 
time- for escape : he is to be here but in two hours ; in two 
hours we may be safe, in concealment, or on the frontier." 
And she rushed to the door of the chamber, as if she would 
have instantly made the attempt : two gendarmes were at the 
door. " We have orders, Mademoiselle," they said, " to allow 
ho one to leave this apartment until the return of the citizen 
Schneider." 

Alas ! all hope of escape was impossible. Mary became 
quite silent for a while ; she would not speak to uncle Jacob ; 
and, in reply to her father's eager questions, she only replied, 
coldly, that she would answer Schneider when he arrived. 

The two dreadful hours passed away only too quickly ; and, 
punctual to his appointment, the ex-monk appeared. Directly 
he entered, Mary advanced to him, and said, calmly, — 

" Sir, I could not deceive you if I said that I freely accepted 
the offer which you have made me. I will be your wife ; but I 
tell ^ou that I love another ; and that it is only to save the 
lives of those two old men that I yield my person up to you." 

Schneider bowed, and said, — 

"It is bravely spoken. I like your candor — your beauty. 
As for the love, excuse me for saying that is a matter of total 
indifference. I have no doubt, however, that it will come as 
soon as your feelings in favor of the young gentleman, your 
cousin, have lost their present fervor. That engaging young 
man has, at present, another mistress — Glory. He occupies, I 
believe, the distinguished post of corporal in a regiment which 
is about to march to — Perpignan, I believe." 

It was, in fact. Monsieur Schneider's polite intention to 
banish me as far as possible from the place of my birth ; and 
he had, accordingly, selected the Spanish frontier as the spot 
where I was to display my future military talents. 

Mary gave no answer to this sneer : she seemed perfectly 
resigned and calm : she only said, — 

" I must make, however, some conditions regarding our pro- 
posed marriage, which a gentleman of Monsieur Schneider's 
gallantry cannot refuse." 

" Pray command me," replied the husband elect. "Fair 
lady, you know I am your slave." 



THE S TOR Y OT MARY A NCEL, \ 33 

"You occupy a distinguished political rank, citizen repre- 
sentative," said she ; " and we in our village are likewise 
known and beloved. I should be ashamed, I confess, to wed 
you here : for our people would wonder at the sudden marriage, 
and imply that it was only by compulsion that I gave you my 
hand. Let us, then, perform this ceremony at Strasburg, be- 
fore thepublic authorities of the city, with the state and solem- 
nity which befits the marriage of one of the chief men of the 
ilepublic." 

*' Be it so, madam," he answered, and gallantly proceded to 
embrace his bride. 

Mary did not shrink from this ruffian's kiss ; nor did she 
reply when poor old Jacob, who sat sobbing in a corner, burst 
out, and said, — 

" O Mary, Mary, I did not think this of thee I " 

" Silence brother ! " hastily said Edward ; " my good son- 
in-law will pardon your ill-humor." 

,1 believe uncle Edward in his heart was pleased at the 
notion of the marriage ; he only cared for money and rank, and 
was little scrupulous as to the means of obtaining them. 

The matter then was finally arranged ; and presently, after 
Schneider had transacted the affairs which brought him into 
that part of the country, the "happy bridal party set forward for 
Strasburg. Uncles Jacob and Edward occupied the %ack seat 
of the old family carriage, and the young bride and bridegroom 
(he was nearly Jacob's age) were seated majestically in front. 
Mary has often since talked to me of this dreadful journey. 
She said she wondered at the scrupulous politeness of Schneider 
during the route ; nay, that at another period she could have 
listened t® and admired the singular talent of this man, his 
great learning, his fancy, and wit ; but her mind was bent upon 
other things, and the poor girl firmly thought that her last day 
was come. 

In the mean time, by a blessed chance, I had not ridden 
three leagues from Strasburg, when the officer of a passing 
troop of a cavalry regiment, looking at the beast on which I 
was mounted, was pleased to take a fancy to it, and ordered 
me, in an authoritative tone, to descend, and to give up my 
steed for the benefit of the Republic. I represented to him, 
in vain, that I was a soldier, like himself, and the bearer of 
despatches to Paris. " Fool ! " he said ; " do you think they 
would send despatches by a man who can ride at best but ten 
leagues a day ? " And the honest soldier was so wrath at my 
supposed duplicity, that he not only confiscated my horse, but 



134 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

my saddle, and the little portmanteau which contained the chief 
part of my worldly goods and treasure. I had nothing for it 
but to dismount, and take my way on foot back again to 
Strasburg. I arrived there in the evening, determining the 
,next morning to make my case known to the citizen St. Just ; 
and though I made my entry without a sou, I don't know'what 
secret exultation I felt at again being able to return. 

The ante-chamber of such a great man as St. Just was, in 
those days, too crowded for an unprotected boy to obtain an 
audience ; two days passed before I could obtain a sight of 
the friend of Robespierre. On the third day, as I was still 
waiting for ':he interview, I heard a great busde in the court- 
yard of the house, and looked out with many others at the 
spectacle. 

A number of men and women, singing epithalamiums, and 
dressed in some absurd imitation of Roman costume, a troop 
of soldiers and gendarmerie, and an immense, crowd of the 
badauds of Strasbiwg, were surrounding a carriage which then 
entered the court of the mayoralty. In this carriage, great 
God !^ I saw my dear Mary, and Schneider by her side. The 
truth instantly came upon me : the reason for Schneider's keen 
mquiries and my abrupt dismissal ; but I could not believe 
that Maiy was false to me. I had only to look in her face, 
white ant rigid as marble, to see that this proposed marriage 
was not with her consent. 

I fell back in the crowd as the procession entered the great 
room in which I was, and hid my face in my hands : I could 
not look upon her as the wife of another,— upon her so long 
loved and truly— the saint of my childhood— the pride and 
hope of my youth — torn from me forever, and delivered over 
to the unholy arms of the murderer who stood before me. 

The door of St. Just's private apartment opened, and he 
took his seat at the table of mayoralty just as Schneider and 
his corte'ge arrived before it. 

Schneider then said that he came in before the authorities 
of the Republic to espouse the citoyenne Marie Ancel. 

" Is she a minor t " asked St. Just. 

" She is a minor, but her father is here to give her away." 

" I am here," said uncle Edward, coming eagerly forward 
and bowing. " Edward Ancel, so please you, citizen represen- 
tative. The worthy citizen Schneider has done me the honoi 
of marrying into my family." 

'' ]^ut my father has not told you the terms of the marriage," 
said Mary, interrupting him, in a loud, clear voice. 



THE STORY OF MARY ANCEL. 1 35 

Here Schneider seized her hand, and endeavored to prevent 
her from speaking. Her father turned pale, and cried, '' Stop, 
Mary, stop ! For heaven's sake, remember your poor old 
father's danger ! " 

" Sir, may I speak ? " 

" Let the young woman speak," said St. Just, " if she have 
a desire to talk." He did not suspect what would be the pur- 
port of her story. 

" Sir," she said, '' two days since the citizen Schneider 
entered for the first time our house ; and you will fancy that it 
must be a love of very sudden growth which has brought either 
him or me before you to-day. He had heard from a person 
who is now unhappily not present, of my name and of the 
wealth which my family was said to possess ; and hence arose 
this mad design concerning me. He came into our village 
with supreme power, an executioner at his heels, and the 
soldiery and authorities of the district entirely under his orders. 
He threatened my father with death if he refused to give up 
his daughter ; and I, who knew that there was no chance of 
escape, except here before you, consented to become his wife. 
My father I know to be innocent, for all his transactions with 
the State have passed through my hands. Citizen represen- 
tative, I demand to be freed from this marriage ; and I charge 
Schneider as a traitor to the Republic, as a man who would 
have murdered an innocent citizen for the sake of private 
gain. 

During the delivery of this little speech, uncle Jacob had 
been sobbing and panting like a broken-winded horse ; and 
when Mary had done, he rushed up to her and kissed her, and 
held her tight in his arms. " Bless thee, my child ! " he cried, 
"for having had the courage to speak the truth, and shame thy 
old father and me, who dared not say a word." 

" The girl amazes me," said Schneider, with a look of 
astonishment. " I never saw her, it is true, till yesterday; but 
I used no force : her father gave her to me with his free con- 
sent, and she yielded as gladfy. Speak, Edward Ancel, was it 
not so ? " 

"It was, indeed, by my free consent," said Edward, trem- 
bling. 

" For shame, brother ! " cried old Jacob. " Sir, it was by 
Edward's free consent and my niece's ; but the guillotine was 
in the court-yard ! Question Schneider's famulus, the man 
Gregoire, him who reads ' The Sorrows of Werter.' " 

Gregoire stepped forward, and looked hesitatingly at 



136 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

Schneider^ as he said, " I know not what took place within 
doors ; but I was ordered to put up the scaffold without ; and 
I was told to get soldiers, and let no one leave the house." 

"Citizen St. Just," cried Schneider, "you will not allow 
the testimony of a ruffian like this, of a foolish girl, and a mad 
ex-priest, to weigh against the word of one who has done such 
service to the Republic : it is a base conspiracy to betray me ; 
the whole family is known to favor the interest of the emigres.^' 

"And therefore you would marry a member of the family, 
and allow the others to escape ; you must make a better de- 
fence, citizen Schneider," said St. Just, sternly. 

Here I came forward, and said that, three days since, I 
had received an order to quit Strasburg for Paris immediately 
after a conversation with Schneider, in which I had asked him 
his aid in promoting my marriage with my cousin, Mary Ancel ; 
that he had heard from me full accounts regarding her father's 
wealth ; and that he had abruptly caused my dismissal, in order 
to carry on his scheme against her. 

" You are in the uniform of a regiment in this town ; who 
sent you from it t " said St. Just. 

I produced the order, signed by himself, and the despatches 
which Schneider had sent me. 

" The signature is mine, but the despatches did not come 
from my office. Can you prove in any way your conversatioh 
with Schneider ? " 

" Why," said my sentimental friend Gregoire, " for the 
matter of that, I can answer that the lad was always talking 
about this young woman : he told me the whole story himself, 
and many a good laugh I had with citizen Schneider as we 
talked about it." 

The charge against Edward Ancel must be examined into," 
said St. Just. "The marriage cannot take place. But if I 
had ratified it, Mary Ancel, what would then have been your 
course ? " 

Mary felt for a moment in her bosom, and said — ^''He would 
have died to-night — / would have stabbed him with this dagger.'" * 



The rain was beating down the streets, and yet they Were 
thronged ; all the world was hastening to the market-place, 
where the worthy Gregoire was about to perform some of the 
pleasant duties of his office. On this occasion, it was not 

* This reply, and indeed, the whole of the story, is historical. An account, by Charles 
Jfodiei-j in the Rtvue de Paris, suggested it to the writer. 



BEATRICE MERGER. 137 

death that he was to inflict ; he was only to expose a criminal 
who was to be sent on afterwards to Paris. St. Just had ordered 
that Schneider should stand for six hours in the public //ij;^:^ of 
Strasburg, and then be sent on to the capital, to be dealt with, 
as the authorities might think fit. 

The people followed with execrations the villain to his place 
of punishment ; and Gregoire grinned as he fixed to the post 
the man whose orders he had obeyed so often — who had de- 
livered over to disgrace and punishment so many who merited 
it not. 

Schneider was left for several hours exposed to the mockery 
and insults of the mob ; he was then, according to his sentence, 
marched on to Paris, where it is probable that he would have 
escaped death, but for his own fault. He was left for some 
time in prison, quite unnoticed, perhaps forgotten : day by day 
fresh victims were carried to the scaffold, and yet the Alsatian 
tribune remained alive ; at last, by the mediation of one of his 
friends, a long petition was presented to Robespierre, stating 
his services and his innocence, and demanding his freedom. 
The reply to this was an order for his instant execution : the 
wretch died in tlie last days of. Robespierre's reign. His com- 
rade, St. Just, followed him, as you know; but Edward Ancel 
had been released before this, for the action of my brave Mary 
had created a strong feeling in his favor. 

"And Mary?" said I. 

Here a stout and smiling old lady entered the Captain's 
little room : she was leaning on the arm of a military-looking 
man of some forty years, and followed by a number of noisy, 
rosy children. 

" This is Mary Ancel," said the Captain, " and I am Cap- 
tain Pierre, and yonder is the Colonel, my son ; and you see us 
here assembled in force, for it is the fete of little Jacob yonder, 
whose brothers and sisters have all come from their school to 
dance at his birthday." 



BEATRICE MERGER. 



Beatrice Merger, whose name might figure at the nead 
of one of Mr. Colburn's politest romances — so smooth and 
aristocratic does it sound — is no heroine, except of her own 
simple history ; she is not a fashionable French Countess, nor 
even a victim of the Revolution. 



138 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

She is a stout, sturdy girl of two-and-twenty, with a face 
beaming with good-nature, and marked dreadfully by small-pox ; 
and a pair of black eyes, which might have done some execu- 
tion had they been placed in a smoother face. Beatrice's sta- 
tion in society is not very exalted ; she is a servant of all-work : 
she will dress your wife, your dinner, your children ; she does 
beefsteaks and plain work; she makes beds, blacks boots, and 
waits at table ; — such, at least, were the offices which she per- 
formed in the fashionable establishment of the writer of this 
book : perhaps her history may not inaptly occupy a few pages 
of it. 

" My father died," said Beatrice, " about six years since, 
and left my poor mother with little else but a small cottage and 
a strip of land, and four children too young to work. It was 
hard enough in my father's time to supply so many little mouths 
with food ; and how was a poor widowed woman to provide for 
them now, who had neither the strength nor the opportunity 
for labor? 

" Besides us, to be sure, there was my old aunt ; and she 
would have helped us, but she could not, for the old woman is 
bed-ridden ; so she did nothing but occupy our best room, and 
grumble from morning till night : heaven knows, poor old soul, 
that she had no great reason to be very happy ; for you know, 
sir, that it frets the temper to be sick ; and that it is worse still 
to be sick and hungry too. 

" At that time, in the country where we lived (in Picardy, 
not very far from Boulogne), times were so bad that the best 
workman could hardly find employ ; and when he did, he was 
happy if he could earn a matter of twelve sous a day. Mother, 
work as she would, could not gain more than six : and it was a 
hard job, out of this, to put meat into six bellies, and clothing 
on six backs. Old Aunt Bridget would scold, as she got her 
portion of black bread ; and my little brothers used to cry if 
theirs did not come in time. I, too, used to cry when I got my 
share ; for mother kept only a little, little piece for herself, and 
said that she had dined in the fields, — God pardon her for the 
lie ! and bless her, as I am sure He did ; for, but for Him, no 
working man or woman could subsist upon such a wretched 
morsel as my dear mother took. 

"I was a thin, ragged, barefooted girl, then, and sickly and 
weak for want of food ; but I think I felt mother's hunger more 
than my own : and many and many a bitter night I lay awake, 
crying, and praying to God to give me means of working for 
myself and aiding her. And He has, indeed, been good to 
me," said pious Beatrice, "for He has given me all this! 



BEATRICE MERGER. I^g 

"Well, time rolled on, and matters grew worse than ever: 
winter came, and was colder to us than any other winter, for 
our clothes were thinner and more torn; mother sometimes 
could find no work, for the fields in which she labored were 
hidden under the snow ; so that when we wanted them most we 
had them least — warmth, work, or food. 

" I knew that, do what I would, mother would never let me 
leave her, because I looked to my little brothers and my old 
cripple of an aunt; but still, bread was better for us than all 
my service ; and when I left them the six would have a slice 
more ; so I determined to bid good-by to nobody, but to go 
away, and look for work elsewhere. One Sunday, when mother 
and the little ones were at church, I went in to Aunt Bridget, 
and said, 'Tell mother, when she comes back, that Beatrice is 
gone.' I spoke quite stoutly, as if I did not care about it. 

" * Gone ! gone where t ' said she. ' You ain't going to leave 
me alone, you nasty thing ; you ain't going to the village to 
dance, you ragged, barefooted slut : you're all of a piece in this 
house — your mother, your brothers, and you. I know you've 
got meat in the kitchen, and you only give me black bread ;' 
and here the old lady began to scream as if her heart would 
break ; but we did not mind it, we were so used to it. 

'' 'Aunt,' said I, * I'm going, and took this very opportunity 
because you were alone : tell mother I am too old now to eat 
her bread, and do no work for it : I am going, please God, 
where work and bread can be found : ' and so I kissed her : she 
was so astonished that she could not move or speak ; and I 
walked away through the old room, and the little garden, God 
knows whither ! 

" I heard the old woman screaming after me, but I did not 
stop nor turn round. I don't think I could, for my heart was 
very full ; and if I had gone back again, I should never have 
had the courage to go away. So I walked a long, long way, 
until night fell ; and I thought of poor mother coming home 
from mass, and not finding me ; and little Pierre shouting out, 
in his clear voice, for Beatrice to bring him his supper. I think 
I should like to have died that night, and I thought I should 
too ; for when I was obliged to throw myself on the cold, hard 
ground, my feet were too torn and weary to bear me any further. 

" Just then the moon got up ; and do you know I felt a com- 
fort in looking at it, for I knew it was shining on our little cot- 
tage, and it seemed like an old friend's face ? A little way on, 
as I saw by the moon, was a village : and I saw, too, that a 
mi:^ was coming towards me ; he miAst have heard me crying, 
I suppose, 



I40 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

" Was not God good to me ? This man was a farmer, who 
had need of a girl in his house ; he made me tell him why I 
was alone, and I told him the same story I have told you, and 
he believed me and took me home. I had walked six long 
leagues from our village that day, asking everywhere for work 
in vain ; and here, at bed-time, I found a bed and" a supper ! 

" Here I lived very well for some months ; my master was 
very good and kind to me ; but, unluckily, too poor to give me 
any wages ; so that I could save nothing to send to my poor 
mother. My mistress used to scold ; but I was used to that at 
home, from Aunt Bridget ; and she beat me sometimes, but I 
did not mind it ; for your hardy country girl is not like your 
tender town lasses, who cry if a pin pricks them, and give warn- 
ing to their mistresses at the first hard word. The only draw- 
back to my comfort was, that I had no news of my mother ; I 
could not write to her, nor could she have read my letter, if I 
had ; so there I was, at only six leagues' distance from home, as 
far off as if I had been to Paris or to 'Merica. 

" However, in a few months I grew so listless and home- 
sick, that my mistress said she would keep me no longer ; and 
though I went away as poor as I came, 1 was still too glad to 
go back to the old village again, and see dear mother, if it were 
but for a day. I knew she would share a crust with me, as' she 
had done for so long a time before ; and hoped that, now, as I 
was taller and stronger, I might find work more easily in the 
neighborhood. 

" You may fancy what a f^te it was when I came back ; 
though I'm sure we cried as much as if it had been a funeral. 
Mother got into a fit, which frightened us all ; and as for Aunt 
Bridget, she skreekd away for hours together, and did not scold 
for two days at least. Little Pierre offered me the whole of 
his supper ; poor little man ! his slice of bread was no bigger 
than before I went away. 

" Well, I got a little work here, and a little there ; but still 
I was a burden at home rather than a bread-winner ; and, at 
the closing-in of the winter, was very glad to hear of a place at 
two leagues' distance, where work, they said, was to be had. 
Off I set, one morning, to find it, but missed my way, somehow, 
until it was night-time before I arrived. Night-time and snow 
again ; it seemed as if all my journeys were to be made- in this 
bitter weather. 

*' When I came to the farmer's door, his house was shut up, 
and his people all a-bed ; I knocked for a long while in vain ; 
at l^st; hQ made his appearance at a window up stairs, and 



BEATRICE MERGER. 



141 



seemed so frightened, and looked so angry that I suppose he 
took me for a thief. I told him how I had come for work. 
* Who comes for work at such an hour ? ' said he. ' Go home, 
you impudent baggage, and do not disturb honest people out 
of their sleep.' He banged the window to ; and so I was left 
alone to shift for myself as I might. There was n,o shed, no 
cow-house, where I could find abed : so I got under a cart, 6n 
some straw : it was no very warm berth. I could not sleep for 
the cold : and the hours passed so slowly, that it seemed as if 
I had been there a week, instead of a night ; but still it was 
not so bad as the first night when I left home, and when t|ie 
good farmer found me. 

"In the morning, before it was light, the farmer's people 
came out, and saw me crouching under the cart : they told me 
to get up ; but I was so cold that I could not : at last the man 
himself came, and recognized me as the girl who had disturbed 
him the night before. When he heard my name, and the pur- 
pose for which I came, this good man took me into the house 
and put me into one of the beds out of which his sons had just 
got ; and, if I was cold before, you may be sure I was warm 
and comfortable now ! such a bed as this I had never slept in, 
nor ever did I have such good 'milk-soup as he gave me out pi 
his own breakfast. Well, he agreed to hire me ; and what do 
you think he gave me .?— six sous a day ! and let me sleep in 
the cow-house besides : you may fancy how happy I was now 
at the prospect of earning so much money. "'! 

"There was an old woman among the laborers who used ito 
sell us soup : I got a cupful every day for a halfpenny, with a 
bit of bread in it ; and might eat as much beet-root besides as 
I liked ; not a very wholesome meal, to be sure, but God too'k 
care that it should not disagree with me. 

" So, every Saturday, when work was over, I had thirty sous 
to carry home to mother ; and tired though I was, I walked 
merrily the two leagues to our village, to see her again. On 
the road there was a great wood to pass through,, and this 
frightened me ; for if a thief should come and rob me of my 
whole week's earnings, what could a poor lone girl do to help 
herself ? But I found a remedy for this too, and no thieves ever 
came near me ; I used to begin saying my prayers as I entered 
the forest, and never stopped until I was safe at home; and 
safe I always arrived, with my thirty sous in my pocket. Ah 1 
you may be sure, Sunday was a merry day for us all." 



142 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

This is the whole of Beatrice's history which is worthy of 
publication ; the rest of it only relates to her arrival in Paris, 
and the various masters and mistresses whom she had there the 
honor to serve. As soon as she enters the capital the romance 
disappears, and the poor girl's sufferings and privations luckily 
vanish with it. Beatrice has got now warm gowns, and stout 
shoes, and plenty of good food. She has had her little brother 
from Picardy ; clothed, fed, and educated him : that young 
gentleman is now a carpenter, and an honor to his profession. 
Madame Merger is in easy circumstances, and receives, yearly, 
fifty francs from her daughter. To crown all. Mademoiselle 
Beatrice herself is a funded proprietor, and consulted the writer 
of this biography as to the best method of laying out a capi- 
tal of two hundred francs, which is the present amount of her 
fortune. 

God bless her ! she is richer than his Grace the Duke of 
Devonshire ; and, I dare to say, has, in her humble walk, 
been more virtuous and more happy than all the dukes in the 
realm. 

It is, indeed, for the benefit of dukes and such great people 
(who, I make no doubt, have long since ordered copies of 
these Sketches,) that poor little Beatrice's story has been in- 
dited. Certain it is, that the young woman would never have 
been immortalized in this way, but for the good which her 
betters may derive from her example. If your ladyship will 
but reflect a little, after boasting of the sums which you spend 
in charity ; the beef and blankets which you dole out at Christ- 
mas ; the poonah-painting which you execute for fancy fairs ; 
the long, long sermons which you listen to at St. George's, the 
whole year through; — your ladyship, I say, will allow that, 
although perfectly meritorious in your line, as a patroness of 
the Church of England, of Almack's, and of the Lying-in 
Asylum, yours is but a paltry sphere of virtue, a pitiful attempt 
at benevolence, and that this honest servant-girl puts you to 
shame ! And you, my Lord Bishop : do you, out of your six 
sous a day, give away five to support your flock and family ? 
Would you drop a single coach-horse (I do not say a dinner, 
for such a notion is monstrous, in one of your lordship's de- 
gree), to feed any one of the starving children of your lordship's 
mother — the Church .? 

I pause for a reply. His lordship took too much turtle and 
cold punch for dinner yesterday, and cannot speak just now; 
but we have, by this ingenious question, silenced him alto- 
gether : let the world wag as it will, and poor Christians and 



CARICA TURES AND LITHOGRAPHY JN PARIS. 143 

curates starve as they may, my lord's footmen must have their 

new liveries, and his horses their four feeds a day. 

* # * * # 

When we recollect his speech about the Catholics — when 
we remember his last charity sermon, — but I say nothing. 
Here is a poor benighted superstitious creature, worshipping 
images, without a rag to her tail, who has as much faith, and 

humility, and charity, as all the reverend bench. 

* * * * * 

This angel is without a place : and for this reason (besides 
the pleasure of composing the above slap at episcopacy) — I 
have indited her history. If the Bishop is going to Paris, and 
wants a good honest maid-of-all-work, he can have her, I have 
no doubt ; or if he chooses to give a few pounds to her mother, 
they can be sent to Mr. Titmarsh, at the publisher's. 

Here is Miss Merger's last letter and autograph. The note 
was evidently composed by an Ecrivain public : — 

" Madame^ 
" Ayanf apris par ce Monsieur^ que vous %'ous portiez hien^ 
ainsi que Monsieur, ay ant su aussi que vous parliez de moi dans 
voire lettre cette nouvelle ?n^afait bien plaisir ye projite de Vocca- 
sio7i pour vous f aire passer ce petit billet ou ye voudrais pouvoir 
m'enveloper pour alter vous voir et pour vous dire que ye suis en- 
core sans place, yem'ennuye toujours de ne pas vous voir ainsi 
que Minette {Mi?iette is a cat) qui semble m^interroger tour a tour 
et demander oil vous etes. ye vous envoye aussi la note du linge a 
blanchir — ah, Madame I ye vais cesser de vous ecrire mats non 
de vous regretter,^^ 

Beatrice Merger. 



CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY IN PARIS. 

Fifty years ago there lived at Munich a poor fellow, by 
name Aloys Senefelder, who was in so little repute as an 
author and artist, that printers and engravers refused to publish 
his works at their own charges, and so set him upon some plan 
for doing without their aid. In the first place, Aloys invented 
a certain kind of ink, which would resist the action of the acid 
that is usually employed by engravers, and with this he made 
his experiments upon copperplates, as long as he could afford 



144 ^-^^ PARIS SJCETCH BOOK. 

to purchase them. He found that to write upon the plates back- 
wards, after the manner of engravers, required much skill and 
many trials ; and he thought that, were he to practise upon any 
other polished surface — a smooth stone, for instance, the least 
costly article imaginable — he might spare the expense of the 
copper until he had sufficient skill to use it. 

One day, it is said, that Aloys was called upon to write — ■ 
rather a humble composition for an author and artist — a wash- 
ing-bill. He had no paper at hand, and so he wrote out the 
bill with some of his newly-invented ink upon one of his Kel- 
heim stones. Some time afterwards he thought he would try 
and take an impression of his washing-bill : he did, and suc- 
ceeded. Such is the story, which the reader most likely knows 
very well ; and having alluded to the origin of the art, we shall 
not follow the stream through its windings and enlargement 
after it issued from the little parent rock, or fill our pages with 
the rest of the pedigree. Senefelder invented Lithography. 
His invention has not made so much noise and larum in the 
world as some others, which have an origin quite as humble 
and unromantic ; but it is one to which we owe no small profit, 
and a great deal of pleasure ; and, as such, we are bound to 
speak of it with all gratitude and respect. The schoolmaster, 
who is now abroad, has taught us, in our youth, how the culti- 
vation of art *' emoilit mores 7iec siiiit esse^^ — (it is needless to finish 
the quotation) ; and Lithography has been, to our thinking, the 
very best ally that art ever had ; the best friend of the artist, 
allowing him to produce rapidly multiplied and authentic copies 
of his own works (without trusting to the tedious and expensive 
assistance of the engraver) ; and the best friend to the people 
likewise, who have means of purchasing these cheap and beau- 
tiful productions, and thus having their ideas '' mollified " and 
their manners " feros " no more. 

With ourselves, among whom money is plenty, enterprise so 
great, and everything matter of commercial speculation. Lithog- 
raphy has not been so much practised as wood or steel en- 
graving ; which, by the aid of great original capital and spread 
of sale, are able more than to compete with the art of drawing 
on stone. The two former may be called art done hy machinery. 
We confess to a prejudice in favor of the honest work of hand^ 
in matters of art, and prefer the rough workmanship of the 
painter to the smooth copies of his performances which are 
produced, for the most part, on the wood-block or the steel- 
plate. 

The theory will possibly be objected to by many of our 



C A RICA TURES AND LITHOGRAPH^ IN PARIS. 145 

readers : the best proof in its favor, we think, is, that the state 
of art amongst the people in France and Germany, where pub- 
lishers are not so wealthy or enterprising as with us,* and where 
Lithography is more practised, is infinitely higher than in Eng- 
land, and the appreciation more correct. As draughtsmen, 
the French and German painters are incomparably superior to 
our own ; and with art, as with any other commodity, the de- 
mand will be found pretty equal to the supply : with us, the 
general demand is for neatness, prettiness, and what is called 
effect in pictures, and these can be rendered completely, nay, 
improved, by the engraver's conventional manner of copying 
the artist's performances. But to copy fine expression and fine 
drawing, the engraver himself must be a fine artist ; and let 
anybody examine the host of picture-books which appear every 
Christmas, and say whether, for the most part, painters or en- 
gravers possess any artistic merit ? We boast, nevertheless, of 
some of the best engravers and painters in Europe. Here, 
again, the supply is accounted for by the demand ; our highest 
class is richer than any other aristocracy, quite as well in- 
structed, and can judge and pay for fine pictures and engrav- 
ings. But these costly productions are for the few, and not for 
the many, who have not yet c'ertainly arrived at properly ap- 
preciating fine art. 

Take the standard " Album " for instance — that unfortunate 
collection of deformed Zuleikas and Medoras (from the " Byron 
Beauties "), the Flowers, Gems, Souvenirs, Caskets of Loveli- 
ness, Beauty, as they may be called ; glaring caricatures of 
flowers, singly, in groups, in flower-pots, or with hideous de- 
formed little Cupids sporting among them ; of what are called 
''mezzotinto " pencil-drawings, " poonah-paintings," and what 
not. " The Album " is to be found invariably upon the round 
rosewood brass-inlaid drawing-room table of the middle-classes, 
and with a couple of " Annuals " besides, which flank it on the 
same table, represents the art of the house ; perhaps there is 
a portrait of the master of the house in the dining-room, grim- 
glancing from above the mantel-piece ; and of the mistress over 
the piano up stairs ; add to these some odious old miniatures of 
the sons and daughters, on each side of the chimney-glass ; and 
here, commonly (we appeal to the reader if this is an over- 
charged picture), the collection ends. The family goes to the 
Exhibition once a year, to the National Gallery once in ten 

* These countries are, to be sure, inundated with the productions of our market, in the 
shape of Byron Beauties, reprints from the " Keepsakes," " Books of Beauty," and such 
tra&h ; but these are only of late years, and their original schools of art are still flourishing. 

10 



146 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

years : to the former place they have an inducement to go ; 
there are their own portraits, or the portraits of their friends, 
or the portraits of public characters ; and you will see them in- 
fallibly wondering over No. 2645 ^'^ ^^'^^ catalogue, representing 
" The Portrait of a Lady," or of the " First Mayor of Little 
Pedlington since the passing of the Reform Bill ; " or else 
bustling and squeezing among the ininiatures, where lies the 
chief attraction of the Gallery. England has produced, owing 
to the effects of this class of admirers of art, two admirable, 
and five hundred very clever, portrait-painters. How many 
artists ? Let the reader count upon his five fingers, and see if, 
living at the present moment, he can name one for each. 

If, from this examination of our own worthy middle classes, 
we look to the same class in France, what a difference do we 
find ! Humble cafes in country towns have their walls covered 
with pleasing picture papers, representing " Lfs Gloires de VAr- 
7nee Fran false,'' the " Seasons," the " Four Quarters of the 
World," " Cupid and Psyche," or some other allegory, land- 
scape or history, rudely painted, as papers for walls usually are ; 
but the figures are all tolerably well drawn ; and the common 
taste, which has caused a demand for such things, is undeni- 
able. In Paris, the manner in which the cafes and houses of 
the 7'estaurateurs are ornamented, is, of course, a thousand 
times richer, and nothing can be more beautiful, or more ex- 
quisitely finished and correct, than the designs which adorn 
many of them. We are not prepared to say what sums were 
expended upon the painting of " Ve'ry's " or '' Ve'four's," of the 
" Salle Musard," or of numberless other places of public resort 
in the capital. There is many a shopkeeper whose sign is a 
very tolerable picture ; and often have we stopped to admire 
(the reader will give us credit for having remained outside) the 
excellent workmanship of the grapes and vine-leaves over the 
door of some very humble, dirty, inodorous shop of a marchand 
de vin. 

These, however, serve only to educate the public taste, and 
are ornaments for the most part much too costly for the people. 
But the same love of ornament which is shown in their public 
places of resort appears in their houses likewise ; and- every 
one of our readers who has lived in Paris, in any lodging, mag- 
nificent or humble, with any family, however poor, may bear 
witness how profusely the walls of his smart salon in the English 
quarter, or of his little room au sixihne in the Pays Latin, has 
been decorated with prints of all kinds. In the first, probably, 
with bad engravings on copper from the bad and tawdry pic- 



C A RICA TURKS AND LITHOGRAPHY IN PARIS 147 

tures of the artists of the time of the Empire ; in the latter, 
with gay caricatures of Granville or Monnier : military pieces, 
such as are dashed off by Raffet, Charlet, Vernet (one can 
hardJy say which of the three designers has the greatest merit, 
or the most vigorous hand) ; or clever pictures from the crayon 
of the Daverias, the admirable Roqueplan, or Decamp. We 
have named here, we believe, the principal lithographic artists 
in Paris ; and those — as doubtless there are many — of our 
readers who have looked over Monsieur Aubert's portfolios, or 
gazed at that famous caricature-shop window in the Rue de 
Coq, or are even acquainted with the exterior of Monsieur 
Delaporte's little emporium in the Burlington Arcade, need not 
be told how excellent the productions of all these artists are in 
their genre. We get in these engravings the loisirs of men of 
genius, not the finikin performances of labored mediocrity, as 
with us : all these artists are good painters, as well as good 
designers j a design from them is worth a whole gross of Books 
of Beauty ; and if we might raise a humble supplication to the 
artists in our own country of similar merit — to such men as 
Leslie, Maclise, Herbert, Cattermole, and others — it would be, 
that they should, after the example of their French brethren 
and of the English landscape painters, take chalk in hand, 
produce their own copies of their own sketches, and never more 
draw a single " Forsaken One," " Rejected One," " Dejected 
One " at the entreaty of any publisher or for the pages of any 
Book of Beauty, Royalty, or Loveliness whatever. 

Can there be a more pleasing walk in the whole world than 
a stroll through the Gallery of the Louvre on a fete-day ; npt 
to look so much at the pictures as at the lookers-on ? Thou- 
sands of the poorer classes are there : mechanics in their Sun- 
day clothes, smiling grisettes, smart dapper soldiers of the 
line, with bronzed wondering faces, marching together in little 
companies of six or seven, and stopping every now and then at 
Napoleon or Leonidas as they appear in proper vulgar heroics 
in the pictures of David or Gros. The taste of these people 
will hardly be approved by the connoisseur, but they have a 
taste for art. Can the same be said of our lower classes, who, 
if they are inclined to be sociable and amused in their holidays, 
have no place of resort but the tap-room or tea-garden, and no 
food for conversation except such as can be built upon the 
politics or the police reports of the last Sunday paper? So 
much has Church and state Puritanism done for us — so well 
has it succeeded in materializing and binding down to the 
earth the imagination of men, for which God has madq another 



1 48 THE PARIS SKE TCH BOOK. 

world (which certain statesmen take but too little into account)— 
that fair and beautiful world of heart, in which there can be noth- 
ing selfish or sordid, of which Dulness has forgotten the exist- 
ence, and which Bigotry has endeavored to shut out from 
sight — 

" On a banni les demons et les fees, 
Le raisonner tristemeut s'accredite ; 
On court, helas! apr^s la verity : 
Ah! croyez moi, I'erreurason mdrite! ' 

We are not putting in a plea here for demons and fairies, as 
Voltaire does in the above exquisite lines ; nor about to expa- 
tiate on the beauties of error, for it has none ; but the clank of 
steam-engines, and the shouts of politicians, and the struggle 
for gain or bread, and the loud denunciations of stupid bigots, 
have wellnigh smothered poor Fancy among us. We boast of 
our science, and vaunt our superior morality. Does the latter 
exist ? In spite of all the forms which our policy has invented 
to secure it — in spite of all the preachers, all the meeting- 
houses, and all the legislative enactments — if any person will 
take upon himself the painful labor of purchasing and perusing 
some of the cheap periodical prints which form the people's 
library of amusement, and contain what may be presumed to 
be their standard in matters of imagination and fancy, he will 
see how false the claim is that we bring forward of superior 
morality. The aristocracy who are so eager to maintain, were 
of course, not the least to feel the annoyance of the legislative 
restrictions on the Sabbath, and eagerly seized upon that 
happy invention for dissipating the gloom and eimiii ordered by 
Act of Parliament to prevail on that day — the Sunday paper. 
It might be read in a club-room, where the poor could not see 
how their betters ordained one thing for the vulgar and an- 
other for themselves ; or in an easy-chair, in the study, whither 
my lord retires every Sunday for his devotions. It dealt in 
private scandal and ribaldry, only the more piquant for its 
pretty flimsy veil of double-efifendre. It was a fortune to the 
publisher, and it became a necessary to the reader, which he 
could not do without, any more than without his snuff-box, his 
opera-glass, or his chasse after coffee. The delightful novelty 
could not for any time be kept exclusively for the hai(t toti ; 
and from my lord it descended to his valet or tradesmen, and 
from Grosvenor Square it spread all the town through ; so that 
now the lower classes have their scandal and ribaldry organs, 
as well as their betters (the rogues, they tvill imitate them !) 
and as their tastes are somewhat coarser than my lord's, and 
^heir numbers a thousand to one, why of course the prints havQ 



CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY IN PARIS. 



149 



increased, and the profligacy has been diffused in a ratio ex- 
actly proportionable to the demand, until the town is infested 
with such a number of monstrous publications of the kind as 
would have put Abbe Dubois to the blush, or made Louis XV. 
cry shame. Talk of English morality ! — the worst licentious- 
ness, in the worst period of the French monarchy, scarcely 
equalled the wickedness of this Sabbath-keeping country of 
ours. 

The reader will be glad, at last, to come to the conclusion 
that we would fain draw from all these descriptions — why does 
this immorality exist ? Because the people wz/j-/ be amused, 
and have not been taught how ; because the upper classes, 
frightened by stupid cant, or absorbed in material wants, have 
not as yet learned the refinement which only the cultivation of 
art can give ; and when their intellects are uneducated, and 
their tastes are coarse, the tastes and amusements of classes 
still more ignorant must be coarse and vicious likewise, in an 
increased proportion. 

Such discussions and violent attacks upon high and low, 
Sabbath Bills, politicians, and what not, may appear, perhaps, 
out of place in a few pages which purport only to give an ac- 
count of some French drawings : all we would urge is, that, in 
France, these prints are made because they are liked and ap- 
preciated j with us they are not made, because they are not liked 
and appreciated : and the more is the pity. Nothing merely 
intellectual will be popular among us : we do not love beauty 
for beauty's sake, as Germans; or wit, for wit's sake, as the 
French : for abstract art we have no appreciation. We admire 
H. B.'s caricatures, because they are the caricatures of well- 
known political characters, not because they are witty ; and 
Boz, because he writes us good palpable stories (if we may use 
such a word to a story) ; and Madame Vestris, because she 
has the most beautifully shaped legs ; — the art of the designer, 
the writer, the actress (each admirable in its way), is a very 
minor consideration ; each might have ten times the wit, and 
would be quite unsuccessful without their substantial points of 
popularity. 

In France such matters are far better managed, and the 
love of art is a thousand times more keen ; and (from this 
feeling, surely) how much superiority is there in French society 
over our own : how much better is social happiness under- 
stood ; how much more manly equality is there between French- 
man and Frenchman, than between rich and poor in our own 
country', with all our superior wealth, instruction, and political 



15° 



THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 



freedom ! There is, amongst the humblest, a gayety, cheerful- 
ness, politeness, and sobriety, to which in England, no class 
can show a parallel : and these, be it remembered, are not only 
qualities for holidays, but for working-days too, and add to the 
enjoyment of human life as much as good clothes, good beef, 
or good wages. If, to our freedom, we could but add a little of 
their happiness ! — it is one, after all, of the cheapest commod- 
ities in the world, and in the power of every man (with means 
of gaining decent bread) who has the will or the skill to use it. 

We are not going to trace the history of the rise and pro- 
gress of art in France ; our business, at present, is only to 
speak of one branch of art in that country — lithographic de- 
signs, and those chiefly of a humorous character. A history 
of French caricature was published in Paris, two or three years 
back, illustrated by numerous copies of designs, from the time 
of Henry III. to our own day. We can only speak of this 
work from memory, having been unable, in London, to procure 
the sight of a copy ; but our impression, at the time we saw 
the collection, was as unfavorable as could possibly be : noth- 
ing could be more meagre than the wit, or poorer than the 
execution, of the whole set of drawings. Under the Empire, 
art, as may be imagined, was at a very low ebb ; and, aping the 
Government of the day, and catering to the national taste and 
vanity, it was a kind of tawdry caricature of the sublime ; of 
which the pictures of David and Girodet, and almost the entire 
collection now at the Luxembourg Palace, will give pretty fair 
examples. Swollen, distorted, unnatural, the painting was 
something like the politics of those days ; with force in it, 
nevertheless, and something of grandeur, that will exist in 
spite of taste, and is born of energetic will. A man, disposed 
to write comparisons of characters, might, for instance, find 
some striking analogies between Mountebank Murat, with his 
irresistible bravery and horsemanship, who was a kind of mix- 
ture of Duguesclin and Ducrow, and Mountebank David, a 
fierce, powerful painter and genius, whose idea of beauty and 
sublimity seemed to have been gained from the bloody melo- 
dramas on the Boulevard. Both, however, were great in their 
way, and were worshipped as gods, in those heathen times of 
false belief and hero-worship. 

As for poor caricature and freedom of the press, they, like 
the rightful princess in a fairy tale, with the merry fantastic 
dwarf, her attendant, were entirely in the power of the giant 
who ruled the land. The Princess Press was so closely watched 
and guarded (with sorn^ Uttlq show, nevertheless, of respect for 



C A RICA TURES AND LITHOGRAPHY IN PARIS. 1 5 1 

her rank), that she dared not utter a word of her own thoughts ; 
and, for poor Caricature, he was gagged, and put out of the 
way altogether : imprisoned as complete as ever Asmodeus was 
in his phial. 

How the Press and her attendant fared in succeeding reigns, 
is well known ; their condition was little bettered by the down- 
fall of Napoleon : with the accession of Charles X. they were 
more oppressed even than before — more than they could bear ; 
for so hard were they pressed, that, as one has seen when sailors 
are working a capstan, back of a sudden the bars flew, knocking 
to the earth the men who were endeavoring to work them. 
The Revolution came, and up sprung Caricature in France ; all 
sorts of fierce epigrams were discharged at the fiying monarch, 
and speedily were prepared, too, for the new one. 

About this time there lived at Paris (if our information be 
correct) a certain M. Philipon, an indifferent artist (painting 
was his profession), a tolerable designer, and an admirable wit. 
M. Philipon designed many caricatures himself, married the 
sister of an eminent publisher of prints (M. Aubert), and the 
two, gathering about them a body of wits and artists like them- 
selves, set up journals of their own : — La Caricature, first pub- 
lished once a week ; and the Charivari afterwards, a daily 
paper, in which a design also appears daily. 

At first the caricatures inserted in the Charivari were chief- 
ly political ; and a most curious contest speedily commenced 
between the State and M. Philipon's little army in the Gale'rie 
Vero-Dodat. Half a dozen poor artists on the one side, and 
his Majesty Louis Philippe, his august family, and the num- 
berless placemen and supporters of the monarchy, on the other ; 
it was something like Thersites girding at Ajax, and piercing 
through the folds of the clypei septemplicis with the poisonous 
shafts of his scorn. Our French Thersites was not always an 
honest opponent, it must be confessed ;. and many an attack 
was made upon the gigantic enemy, which was cowardly, false, 
and malignant. But to see the monster writhing under the 
effects of the arrow — to see his uncouth fury in return, and the 
blows that he dealt at his diminutive opponent ! — not one of 
these told in a hundred; wdien they did tell, it may be imag- 
ined that they were fierce enough in all conscience, and served 
almost to annihilate the adversary. 

To speak more plainly, and to drop the metaphor of giant 
and dwarf, the King of the French suffered so much, his Minis- 
ters were so mercilessly ridiculed, his family and his own remark- 
able figure drawn with such odious and grotesque resemblance, 



<5^ 



THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK, 



in fanciful attitudes, circumstances, and disguises, so ludic- 
rously mean, and often so appropriate, that the King was obliged 
to descend into the lists and battle his ridiculous enemy in 
form. Prosecutions, seizures, fines, regiments of furious legal 
officials, were first brought into play against poor M. Philipon 
and his little dauntless troop of malicious artists ; some few 
were bribed out of his ranks ; and if they did not, like Gilray 
in England, turn their weapons upon their old friends, at least 
laid down their arms, and would fight no more. The bribes, 
fines, indictments, and loud-tongued avocats du Roi made no 
impression ; Philipon repaired the defeat of a fine by some 
fresh and furious attack upon his great enemy ; if his epigrams 
were more covert, they were no less bitter ; if he was beaten a 
dozen times before a jury, he had eighty or ninety victories to 
show in the same field of battle, and every victory and ever^ 
defeat brought him new sympathy. Every one who was at Paris 
a few years since must recollect the famous '^ poire^^ which was 
chalked upon all the walls of the city, and which bore so ludic- 
rous a resemblance to Louis Philippe, "^^h^ poire became an ob- 
ject of prosecution, and M. Philipon appeared before a jury to 
answer for the crime of inciting to contempt against the King's 
person, by giving such a ludicrous version of his face. Phili- 
pon, for defence, produced a sheet of paper, and drew a poire^ 
a real large Burgundy pear : in the lower parts round and 
capacious, narrower near the stalk, and crowned with two or 
three careless leaves. " There was no treason at least in ///^/," 
he said to the jury; " could any one object to such a harmless 
botanical representation .'' " Then he drew a second pear, ex- 
actly like the former, except that one or two lines were scrawled 
in the midst of it, which bore somehow a ludicrous resemblance 
to the eyes, nose, and mouth of a celebrated personage ; and, 
lastly, he drew the exact portrait of Louis Philippe ; the well- 
known toupet, the ample whiskers and jowl were there, neither 
extenuated nor set down in malice. "Can I help it, gentlemen 
of the jury, then," said he, "if his Majesty's face is like a pear? 
Say yourselves, respectable citizens, is it, or is it not like a 
pear } " Such eloquence could not fail of its effect ; the artist 
was acquitted, and La Foire is immortal. 

At last came the famous September laws : the freedom of 
the Press, which, from August, 1830, was to.be ^'' desormais une 
vh'ite,^^ was calmly strangled by the Monarch who had gained 
his crown for his supposed championship of it ; by his Min- 
isters, some of whom had been stout Republicans on paper but 
a few years before ; and by the Chamber, which, such is the 



CA RICA TURKS A ND LITHO GRA PHY IN PARIS. 153 

"blessed constitution of French elections, will generally vote, 
unvote, revote in any way the Government wishes. With a 
wondrous union, and happy forgetfulness of principle, monarch, 
ministers, and deputies issued the restriction laws ; the Press 
was sent to prison ; as for the poor dear Caricature, it was fairly 
murdered. . No more political satires appear now, and " through 
the eye, correct the heart ; " no more poires ripen on the walls 
of the metroplis ; Philipon's political occupation is gone. 

But there is always food for satire ; and the French carica- 
turists, being no longer allowed to hold up to ridicule and rep- 
robation the King and the deputies, have found no lack of sub- 
jects for the pencil in the ridicules and rascalities of common life. 
We have said that public decency is greater amongst the French 
then amongst us, which, to some of our readers, may appear 
paradoxical ; but we shall not attempt to argue that, in private 
roguery, our neighbors are not our equals. The prods of Gis- 
quet, w^hich has appeared lately in the papers, shows how deep 
the demoralization must be, and how a Government, based 
itself on dishonesty (a tyranny, that is, under the title and fic- 
tion of a democracy,) must practise and admit corruption in its 
own and in its agents' dealings with the nation. Accordingly, 
of cheating contracts, of ministers dabbling with the funds, or 
extracting underhand profits for the granting of unjust privi- 
leges and monopolies, — of grasping, envious police restrictions, 
which destroy the freedom, and, with it, the integrity of com- 
merce, — those who like to examine such details may find plenty 
in French history ; the whole French finance system has been a 
swindle from the days of Luvois, or Law, down to the present 
time. The Government swindles the public, and the small 
traders swindfe their customers, on the authority and example 
of the superior powers. Hence the art of roguery, under such 
high patronage, maintains in France a noble front of impu- 
dence, and a fine audacious openness, which it does not wear 
in our country. 

Among the various characters of roguery which the French 
satirists have amused themselves by depicting, there is one of 
which the greai?tess (using the word in the sense which Mr. Jon- 
athan Wild gave to it) so far exceeds that of all others, embra- 
cing, as it does, all in turn, that it has come to be considered 
the type of roguery in general ; and now, just as all the politi- 
cal squibs were made to come of old from the lips of Pasquin, 
all the reflections on the prevailing cant, knavery, quackery, 
humbug, are put into the mouth of Monsieur Robert Macaire. 

A play was written, some twenty years since, called the 



154 



THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 



" Auberge des Adrets," in which the characters of two robbers 
escaped from the galleys were introduced — Robert Macaire, 
the clever rogue above mentioned, and Bertrand, the stupid 
rogue, his friend, accomplice, butt, and scapegoat, on all occa- 
sions of danger. It is needless to describe the play — a witless 
performance enough, of which the joke was Macaire's exagger- 
ated style of conversation, a farrago of all sorts of high-flown 
sentiments such as the French love to indulge in — contrasted 
with his actions, which were philosophically unscrupulous, and 
his appearance, which was most picturesquely sordid. The 
play had been acted, we believe, and forgotten, when a very 
clever actor, M. Frederick Lemaitre, took upon himself the 
performance of the character of Robert Macaire, and looked, 
spoke, and acted it to such admirable perfection, that the whole 
town rung with applauses of the performance, and the carica- 
turists delighted to copy his singular figure and costume. M. 
Robert Macaire appears in a most picturesque green coat, with 
a variety of rents and patches, a pair of crimson pantaloons 
Ornamented in the same way, enormous whiskers and ringlets, 
an enormous stock and shirt-frill, as dirty and ragged as stock 
and shirt-frill can be, the relic of a hat very gayly cocked 
over one eye, and a patch to take away somewhat from the 
brightness of the other — these are the principal pieces of his 
costume — a snuff-box like a creaking warming-pan, a hand- 
kerchief hanging together by a miracle, and a switch of 
about the thickness of a man's thigh, formed the ornaments 
of this exquisite personage. He is a compound of Field- 
ing's "Blueskin" and Goldsmith's "Beau Tibbs." He has 
the dirt and dandyism of the one, with the ferocity of the 
other: sometimes he is made to swindle, but where he can get 
a shilling more, M. Macaire will murder without scruple : he 
performs one and the other act (or any in the scale between 
them) with a similar bland imperturbability, and accompanies 
his actions with such philosophical remarks as may be expected 
from a person of his talents, his energies, his amiable life and 
character. 

Bertrand is the simple recipient of Macaire's jokes, and 
makes vicarious atonement for his crimes, acting, in fact, the 
part which pantaloon performs in the pantomime, who i^ entirely 
under the fatal influence of clown. He is quite as much a 
rogue as that gentleman, but he has not his genius and courage. 
So, in pantomimes, (it may, doubtless, have been remarked by 
the reader,) clown always leaps first, pantaloon following after, 
more clumsily and timidly than his bold and accomplished 



CARICA TURKS AND LITHOGRAPHY IN PARIS. 155 

friend and guide. Whatever blows are destined for clown, fall, 
by some means of ill-luck, upon the pate of pantaloon : when- 
ever the clown robs, the stolen articles are sure to be found in 
his companion's pocket ; and thus exactly Robert Macaire and 
his companion Bertrand are made to go through the world ; 
both swindlers, but the one more accomplished than the other. 
Both robbing all the world, and Robert robbing his friend, 
and, in the event of danger, leaving him faithfully in the lurch. 
There is, in the two characters, some grotesque good for the 
spectator — a kind of " Beggars' Opera " moral. 

Ever since Robert, with his dandified rags and airs, his cane 
and snuff-box, and Bertrand with torn surtout and all-absorb- 
ing pocket, have appeared on the stage, they have been popular 
with the Parisians ; and with these two types of clever and 
stupid knavery, M. Philipon and his companion Daumier have 
created a world of pleasant satire upon all the prevailing abuses 
of the day. 

Almost the first figure that these audacious caricaturists 
dared to depict was a political one : in Macaire's red breeches 
and tattered coat appeared no less a personage than the King 
himself — the old Foi?'e — in a country of humbugs and swindlers 
the facile princeps ; fit to govern, as he is deeper than all the 
rogues in his dominions. Bertrand was opposite to him, and 
having listened with delight and reverence to some tale of 
knavery truly royal, was exclaiming, with a look and voice ex- 
pressive of the most intense admiration, " Ah vieux blagueur ! 
va ! " — the word blague is untranslatable — it means French 
humbug as distinct from all other ; and only those who know 
the value of an epigram in France, an epigram so wonderfully 
just, a little word so curiously comprehensive, can fancy the 
kind of rage and rapture with which it was received. It was a 
blow that shook the whole dynasty. Thersites had there given 
Buch a wound to Ajax, as Hector in arms could scarcely have 
inflicted : a blow sufficient almost to create the madness to 
which the fabulous hero of Homer and Ovid fell a prey. 

Not long, however, was French caricature allowed to attack 
personages so illustrious : the September laws came, and hence- 
forth no more epigrams were launched against politics ; but 
the caricaturists were compelled to confine their satire to sub- 
jects and characters that had nothing to do with the State. 
The Duke of Orleans was no longer to figure in lithography as 
the fantastic Prince Rosolin ; no longer were multitudes (in 
chalk) to shelter under the enormous shadow of M. d'Argout's 
nose : Marshal Lobau's squirt was hung up in peace, and M. 



1^6 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK 

Thiers' pigmy figure and round spectacled face were no moie 
to appear in print.* Robert Macaire was driven out of the 
Chambers and the Palace — his rem'arks were a great deal too 
appropriate and too severe for the ears of the great men who 
congregated in those places. 

The Chambers and the Palace were shut to him ; but the 
togue, driven out of his rogue's paradise, saw '' that the world 
was all before him where to choose," and found no lack of op- 
portunities for exercising his wit. There was the Bar, with its 
roguish practitioners, rascally attorneys, stupid juries, and for- 
sworn judges ; there was the Bourse, with all its gambling, 
swindling, and hoaxing, its cheats and its dupes; the Medical; 
Profession, and the quacks who ruled it, alternately ; the Stage, 
and the cant that was prevalent there ; the Fashion, and its 
thousand follies and extravagances. Robert Macaire had all 
these to exploiter. Of all the empire, through all the ranks, 
professions, the lies, crimes, and absurdities of men, he may 
make sport at will ; of all except of a certain class. Like Blue- 
beard's wife, he may see everything, but is bidden io beware of 
the blue chatnber. Robert is more wise than Bluebeard's wife, 
and knows that it would cost him his head to enter it. Robert, 
therefore, keeps aloof for the moment. Would there be any 
use in his martyrdom ? Bluebeard cannot live forever ; per- 
haps, even now, those are on their way (one sees a suspicious 
cloud of dust or two) that are to destroy him. 

In the mean time Robert and his friend have been furnish- 
ing the designs that we have before us, and of which perhaps 
the reader will be edified by a brief description. We are not, 
to be sure, to judge of the French nation by M. Macaire, any 
more than we are to judge of our own national morals in the 
last century by such a book as the " Beggars' Opera ; " but 
upon the morals and the national manners, works of satire 
afford a world of light that one would in vain look for in regu- 
lar books of nistory. Doctor Smollett would have blushed to 
devote any considerable portion of his pages to a discussion of 
the acts and character of Mr. Jonathan Wild, such a figure 
being hardly admissible among the dignified personages who 
usually push all others out from the possession of the historical 
page ; but a chapter of that gentleman's memoirs, as they are 
recorded in that exemplary recueil — the " Newgate Calendar ; " 
nay, a canto of the great comic epic (involving many fables, 

* Almost all the principal public men had been most ludicrously caricatured in the Char- 
ivari: those mentioned above were usually depicted with the distinctive attributes men- 
tloned by us. 



CARICA TURES AND LITHOGRAPHY IN PARIS. 



157 



and containing much exaggeration, but still having the 
seeds of truth) which the satirical poet of those days wrote 
in celebration of him — we mean Fielding's " History ol 
Jonathan Wild the Great " — does seem to us to give a 
more curious picture of the manners of those times than any 
recognized history of them. At the close of his history of 
George II., Smollett condescends to give a short chapter on 
Literature and Manners. He speaks of Glover's '* Leonidas," 
Gibber's " Careless Husband," the poems of Mason, Gray, the 
two Whiteheads, " the nervous style, extensive erudition, and 
spperior sense of a Corke ; the delicate taste, the polished 
muse, and tender feeling of a Lyttelton." " King," he says, 
*' shone unrivalled in Roman eloquence, the female sex dis- 
tinguished themselves by their taste and ingenuity. Miss Car- 
ter rivalled the celebrated Dacier in learning and critical 
knowledge : Mrs. Lennox signalized herself by many success- 
ful efforts of genius both in poetry and prose ; and Miss Reid 
excelled the celebrated Rosalba in portrait-painting, both in 
miniature and at large, in oil as well as in crayons. The genius 
of Cervantes was transferred into the novels of Fielding, who 
painted the characters and ridiculed the follies of life with 
equal strength, humor, and propriety. The field of history 
and biography was cultivated by many writers of ability, among 
whom we distinguish the copious Guthrie, the circumstantial 
Ralph, the laborious Carte, the learned and elegant Robertson, 
and above all, the ingenious, penetrating, and comprehensive 
Hume," &c., &c. We will quote no more of the passage. Could 
a man in the best humor sit down to write a graver satire t 
Who cares for the tender muse of Lyttelton 1 Who knows the 
signal efforts of Mrs. Lennox's genius ? Who has seen the ad- 
mirable performances, in miniature and at large, in oil as well 
as in crayons, of Miss Reid ? Laborious Carte, and circum- 
stantial Ralph, and copious Guthrie, where are they, their works, 
and their reputation ? Mrs. Lennox's name is just as clean 
wiped out of the list of worthies as if she had never been born ; 
and Miss Reid, though she was once actual flesh and blood, 
'^ rival in miniature and at large " of the celebrated Rosalba, she 
is as if she had never been at all ; her little farthing rushlight 
of a soul and reputation having burnt out, and left neither wick 
nor tallow. Death, too, has overtaken copious Guthrie and 
circumstantial Ralph. Only a few know whereabouts is the 
grave where lies laborious Carte ; and yet, O wondrous power 
of genius ! Fielding's men and women are alive, though His- 
tory's are not. The progenitors of circumstantial Ralph sent 



158 rHE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

forth, after much labor and pains of making, educating, feeding, 
clothing, a real man child, a great palpable mass of flesh, bones, 
and blood (we say nothing about the spirit), which was to move 
through the world, ponderous, writing histories, and to die. 
having achieved the title of circumstantial Ralph ; and lo ! 
without any of the trouble that the parents of Ralph had under- 
gone, alone perhaps in a watch or sponging-house, fuddled most 
likely, in the blandest, easiest, and most good-humored way in 
the world, Henry Fielding makes a number of men and women 
on so many sheets of paper, not only more amusing than Ralph 
or Miss Reid, but more like flesh and blood, and more alive 
now than they. Is not Amelia preparing her husband's little 
supper? Is not Miss Snapp chastely preventing the crime of 
Mr. Firebrand ? Is not Parson Adams in the midst of his 
family, and Mr. Wild taking his last bowl of punch with the 
Newgate Ordinary ? Is not every one of them a real substan- 
tial have-\y&^Vi personage now ? — more real than Reid or Ralph ? 
For our parts, we will not take upon ourselves to say that they 
do not exist somewhere else : that the actions attributed to 
them have not really taken place ; certain we are that they are 
more worthy of credence than Ralph, who may or may not 
have been circumstantial ; who may or may not even have 
existed, a point unworthy of disputation. As for Miss Reid, 
we will take an affidavit that neither in miniature nor at 
large did she excel the celebrated Rosalba ; and with regard 
to Mrs. Lennox, we consider her to be a mere figment, like 
Narcissa, Miss Tabitha Bramble, or any hero or heroine de- 
picted by the historian of " Peregrine Pickle." 

In like manner, after viewing nearly ninety portraits of Rob- 
ert Macaire and his friend Bertrand, all strongly resembling 
each other, we are inclined to believe in them as historical per- 
sonages, and to canvass gravely the circumstances of their lives. 
Why should we not ? Have we not their portraits ? Are not 
they sufficient proofs ? If not, we must discredit Napoleon (as 
Archbishop Whately teaches), for about his figure and himself 
we have no more authentic testimony. 

Let the reaHty of M. Robert Macaire and his friend M. 
Bertrand be granted, if but to gratify our own fondness for 
those exquisite characters : we find the worthy pair in the 
French capital, mingling with all grades of its society, pars 
magna in the intrigues, pleasures, perplexities, rogueries, specu- 
lations, which are carried on in Paris, as in our own chief city ; 
for it need not be said that roguery is of no country nor clime, 
but finds <^<r 7:avrayod ys 7:aTp\q ij ^offxooaa yij^ is a citizen of all 



CARICA TURES AND LITHOGRAPHY IN PARIS. 15^ 

countries where the quarters are good ; among our merry neigh- 
bors it finds itself very much at its ease. 

Not being endowed, then, with patrimonial wealth, but com- 
pelled to exercise their genius to obtain distinction, or even 
subsistence, we see Messrs. Bertrand and Macaire, by turns, 
adopting all trades and professions, and exercising each with 
their own peculiar ingenuity. As public men, we have spoken 
already of their appearance in one or two important characters, 
and stated that the Government grew fairly jealous of them, 
excluding them from office, as the Whigs did Lord Brougham, 
As private individuals, they are made to distinguish themselves 
as the founders of journals, socieies en co??i?fia?idite (companies 
of which the members are irresponsible beyond the amount of 
their shares), and all sorts of commercial speculations, requiring 
intelligence and honesty on the part of the directors, confidence 
and liberal disbursements from the shareholders. 

These are, among the French, so numerous, and have been 
of late years (in the shape of Newspaper Companies, Bitumen 
Companies, Galvanized-Iron Companies, Railroad Companies, 
&c.) pursued with such a blind furor and lust of gain, by that 
easily excited and imaginative people, that, as maybe imagined, 
the satirist has found plenty of occasion for remark, and M. 
Macaire and his friend innumerable opportunities for exercising 
their talents. 

We know nothing of M. Emile de Girardin, except that, in 
a duel, he shot the best man in France, Armand Carrel ; and in 
Girardin's favor it must be said, that he had no other alterna- 
tive ; but was right in provoking the duel, seeing that the whole 
Republican party had vowed his destruction, and that he fought 
and killed their champion, as it were. We know nothing of M. 
Girardin's private character; but, as far as we can judge from 
the French public prints, he seems to be the most speculative 
of speculators, and, of course, a fair butt for the malice of the 
caricaturists. His one great crime, in the eyes of the French 
Republicans and Republican newspaper proprietors, was, that 
Girardin set up a journal, as he called it, '' fra7iche7nent 
monarchique;' — a journal in the pay of the monarchy, that is, — 
and a journal that cost only forty francs by the year. The 
National costs twice as much ; the Charivari itself costs half as 
much again ; and though all newspapers, of all parties, concurred 
in "snubbing" poor M. Girardin and his journal, the Repub- 
lican prints were by far the most bitter against him, thundering 
daily accusations and personalities ; whether the abuse was well 
or ill-founded, we know not. Hence arose the duel with Carrel ; 



1 60 THE PARIS SKE TCH B O OK, 

after the termination of which, Girardin put by his pistol, and 
vowed, very properly, to assist in the shedding of no more 
blood. Girardin had been the originator of numerous other 
speculations besides the journal : the capital of these, like that 
of the journal, was raised by shares, and the shareholders, by 
some fatality, have found themselves wofully in the lurch ; while 
Girardin carries on the war gayly, is, or was, a member of the 
Chamber of Deputies, has money, goes to Court, and possesses 
a certain kind of reputation. He invented, we believe, the 
" Institution Agronome de Coetbo," * the " Physionotype," the 
*' Journal des Connoissances Utiles," the " Panthe'on Litteraire," 
and the system of " Primes " — premiums, that is — to be given, 
by lottery, to certain subscribers in these institutions. Could 
Robert Macaire see such things going on, and have no hand in 
them ? 

Accordingly Messrs. Macaire and Bertrand are made the 
heroes of many speculations of the kind. In almost the first 
print of our collection, Robert discourses to Bertrand of his 
projects. " Bertrand," says the disinterested admirer of talent 
and enterprise, " j'adore I'industrie. Si tu veux nous creons 
une banque, mais la, une vraie banque : capital cent millions de 
millions, cent milliards de milliards d'actions. Nous enfongons 
la banque de France, les banquiers, les banquistes ; nous 
enfongons tout le monde." " Oui," says Bertrand, ver}^ calm 
and stupid, " mais les gendarmes ? " " Que tu es bete, Ber- 
trand : est-ce qu'on arrete un millionaire ? " Such is the key to 
M. Macaire's philosophy ; and a wise creed too, as times go. 

Acting on these principles, Robert appears soon after ; he 
has not created a bank, but a journal. He sits in a chair of 
state, and discourses to a shareholder. Bertrand, calm and 
stupid as before, stands humbly behind. " Sir," says the editor 
of ,Z^ ^/t7^//^, journal quotidienne, "our profits arise from a 
new combination. The journal costs twenty francs ; we sell it 
for twenty-three and a half. A million subscribers make three 
millions and a half of profits ; there are my figures ; contradict 
me by figures, or I will bring an action for libel." The reader 
may fancy the scene takes place in England, where many such 
a swindling prospectus has obtained credit ere now. At Plate 
33, Robert is still a journalist ; he brings to the editor of a paper 
an article of his composition, a violent attack on a law. " My 
dear M. Macaire," says the editor, " this must be changed ; we 
mMsX. praise this law." " Bon, bon ! " says our versatile Macaire. 

• It is not necessary to enter Into descriptions of these various inventions^ 



C A RICA TURES AND LITHOGRAPHY IN PARIS. 16 1 

" Je vais retoucher 9a, et je vous fais en faveur de la loi un 
article mousseux.^'' 

Can such things be ? Is it possible that French journalists 
can so forget themselves ? The rogues ! they should come to 
England and learn consistency. The honesty of the Press in 
England is like the air we breathe, without it we die. No, no ! 
in France, the satire may do very well ; but for England it is 
too monstrous. Call the press stupid, call it vulgar, call it 
violent, — but honest it />. Who ever heard of a journal chang- 
ing its politics ? O tcmp07'a ! O 77toirs I as Robert Macaire says, 
this would be carrying the joke too far. 

When he has done with newspapers, Robert Macaire begins 
to distinguish himself on 'Change,* as a creator of companies, 
a vendor of shares, or a dabbler in foreign stock. " Buy my 
coal-mine shares," shouts Robert ; " gold mines, silver mines, 
diamond mines, 'sont de la pot-bouille de la ratatouille en com- 
paraison de ma houille.' " *' Look," says he, on another occa- 
sion, to a very timid, open-countenanced client, "you have a 
property to sell ! I have found the very man, a rich capitalist, 
a fellow whose bills are better than bank-notes." His client 
sells ; the bills are taken in payment, and signed by that re- 
spectable capitalist. Monsieur de Saint Bertrand. At Plate 81, 
we find him inditing a circular letter to all the world, running 
thus : — " Sir, — I regret to say that your application for shares 
in the Consolidated European Incombustible Blacking Associa- 
tion cannot be complied with, as all the shares of the C. E. I. B. 
A. were disposed of on the day they were issued. I have, 
nevertheless, registered your name, and in case a second series 
should be put forth, I shall have the honor of immediately 
giving you notice. I am, sir, yours, &c., the Director, Robert 
Macaire." — "Print 300,000 of these," he says to Bertrand, 
" and poison all France with them." As usual, the stupid Ber- 
trand remonstrates — " But we have not sold a single share ; you 

have not a penny in your pocket, and " " Bertrand, you 

are an ass ; do as I bid you." 

Will this satire apply anywhere in England ? Have we any 
Consolidated European Blacking Associations amongst us ? 
Have we penniless directors issuing El Dorado prospectuses, 
and jockeying their shares through the market ? For informa- 
tion on this head, we must refer the reader to the newspapers ; 
or if he be connected with the city, and acquainted with com- 
mercial men, he will be able to say whether all the persons 
whose names figure at the head of announcements of projected 

* We have given a description of a genteel Macaire in the account of M. de Bernard's 
noveL. 



1 6 2 THE PA RIS SKE TCH B OK. 

companies are as rich as Rothschild, or quite as honest as heart 
could desire. 

When Macaire has sufficiently exploite the Bourse, whether 
as a gambler in the public funds or other companies, he sagely 
perceives that it is time to turn to some other profession, and, 
providing himself with a black gown, pioposes blandly to Ber- 
trand to set up — a new religion. " Mon ami," says the repent- 
ant sinner, '' le temps de la commandite va passer, mais les ha- 
dauds nepasseivnt pas.''^ (O rare sentence ! it should be written 
in letters of gold !) " Ocaipoiis nous de ce qui est eternel. Si 
nous fassions une re'lig'on ? " On which M. Bertrand remarks, 
" A religion ! what the devil — a religion is not an easy thing to 
make." But Macaire's receipt is easy. " Get a gown, take a 
shop," he says, " borrow some chairs, preach about Napoleon, 
or the discovery of America, or Moliere — and there's a religion 
for you." 

We have quoted this sentence more for the contrast it offers 
with our own manners, than for its merits. After the noble 
paragraph, " Les badauds ne passeront pas. Occupons nous de 
ce qui est eternel," one would have expected better satire upon 
cant than the words that follow. We are not in a condition to 
say w^hether the subjects chosen are those that had been 
selected by Pere Enfantin, or Ghatel, or Lacordaire ; but the 
words are curious, we thhik, for the very reason that the satire 
is so poor. The fact is, there is no religion in Paris ; even 
clever M. Philipon, who satirizes everything, and must know, 
therefore, some little about the subject which he ridicules, has 
nothing to say but, " Preach a sermon, and that makes a reli- 
gion ; anything will do." \i aJiythifig ^\\\ do, it is clear that 
the religious commodity is not in much demand. Tartuffe had 
better things to say about hypocrisy in his time ; but then Faith 
was alive ; now, there is no patirizing religious cant in France, 
for itS contrary, true religion, has disappeared altogether; and 
having no substance, can cas^ no shadow. If a satirist would 
lash the religious hypocrites in Efigland r\o\\ — the High Church 
hypocrites, the Low Church hypocrites, the promiscuous Dissent- 
ing hypocrites, the No Popery hypocrites — he would have ample 
subject enough. In France, the religious hypocrites went out 
with the Bourbons. Those who remain pious in that country 
(or, rather, we should say, in the capital, for of that we speak,) 
are unaffectedly so, for they have no worldly benefit to hope for 
from their piety ; the great majority have no religion at all, and 
do not scoff at the few, for scoffing is the minority's weapon, 
and is passed always to the weaker side, whatever that may be. 



CAJ^/CA TUI^^S AND LITHOGRAPHY JM PARIS. 1 63 

Thus H. B. caricatures the Ministers : if by any accident that 
body of men should be dismissed from their situations, and be 
succeeded by H. B.'s friends, the Tories, — what must the poor 
artist do ? He must pine away and die, if he be not converted • 
he cannot always be paying compliments ; for caricature has a 
spice of Goethe's Devil in it, and is " der Geist der stets ver- 
neint," the Spirit that is always denying. 

With one or two of the French writers and painters of cari- 
catures, the King tried the experiment of bribery ; which suc- 
ceeded occasionally in buying off the enemy, and bringing him 
from the republican to the royal camp ; but when there, the 
deserter was never of any use. Figaro, when so treated, grew 
fat and desponding, and lost all his sprightly verve; and 
Nemesis became as gentle as a Quakeress. But these instances 
of "ratting" were not many. Some few poets were bought 
over; but, among men following the profession of the press, a 
change of politics is an infringement of the point of honor, and 
a man must fight as well as apostatize. A very curious table 
might be made, signalizing the difference of the moral standard 
between us and the French. Why is the grossness and indeli- 
cacy, publicly permitted in England, unknown in France, where 
private morality is certainly a-t a lower ebb ? Why is the point 
of private honor now more rigidly maintained among the French? 
Why is it, as it should be, a moral disgrace for a Frenchman to 
go into debt, and no disgrace for him to cheat his customer 1 
Why is there more honesty and less — more propriety and less ? 
— and how are we to account for the particular vices or virtues 
which belong to each nation in its turn t 

The above is the Reverend M. Macaire's solitary exploit as 
a spiritual swindler: as Maitre Macaire in the courts of law, as 
avocat^ avoue — in a humbler capacity even, as a prisoner at the 
bar, he distinguishes himself greatly, as may be imagined. On 
one occasion we find the learned gentleman humanely visiting 
an unfortunate detenu — no other person, in fact, .than his friend 
M. Bertrand, who has fallen into some trouble, and is awaiting 
the sentence of the law. He begins — 

" Mon cher Bertrand, donne moi cent ^cus, je te fais ac- 
quitter d'emblee." 

" J'ai pas d'argent." 

" H^ bien, donne moi cent francs." 

" Pas le sou." 

" Tu n'as pas dix francs 1 " 

" Pas un Hard." 

" Alors donne moi tes bottes, je plaiderai la circonstance 
sn^nuante." 



1 64 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

The manner in which Maitre Macaire soars from the cent 
ecus (a high point already) to the sublime of the boots, is in the 
best comic style. In another instance he pleads before a judge, 
and, mistaking his client, pleads for defendant, instead of plain- 
tiff. " The infamy of the plaintiff's character, my luds., renders 
his testimony on such a charge as this wholly unavailing." 
" M. Macaire, M. Macaire," cries the attorney, in a fright, 
" you are for the plaintiff ! " " This, my lords, is what the 
defendant will say. This is the line of defence which the op- 
posite party intend to pursue ; as if slanders like these could 
weigh with an enlightened jury, or injure the spotless reputa- 
tion of my client ! " In this story and expedient M. Macaire has 
been indebted to the English bar. If there be an occupation 
for the English satirist in the exposing of the cant and knavery 
of the pretenders to religion, what room is there for him to lash 
the infamies of the law ! On this point the French are babes 
in iniquity compared to us — a counsel prostituting himself for 
money is a matter with us so stale, that it is hardly food for 
satire : which, to be popular, must find some much more com- 
plicated and interesting knavery whereon to exercise its skill. 

M. Macaire is more skilful in love than in law, and appears 
once or twice in a very amiable light while under the influence 
of the tender passion. We find him at the head of one of those 
useful establishments unknown in our country — a Bureau de 
Mariage : half a dozen of such places are daily advertised in 
the journals : and " une veuve de trente ans ayant une fortune 
de deux cent mille francs," or " une demoiselle de quinze ans, 
jolie, d'une famille trbs distingude, qui possbde trente mille 
livres de rentes," — continually, in this kind-hearted way, are 
offering themselves to the public : sometimes it is a gentleman, 
with a "physique agr^able, — des talens de society " — and a 
place under Government, who makes a sacrifice of himself in a 
similar manner. In our little historical gallery we find this 
philanthropic anti-Malthusian at the head of an establishment 
of this kind, introducing a very meek, simple-looking bachelor 
to some distinguished ladies of his con?ioissajice. " Let me pre- 
sent you, sir, to Madame de St. Bertrand " (it is our old friend), 
" veuve de la grande arm^e, et Mdlle Eloa de Wormspire. ^ Ces 
dames brulent de I'envie de faire votre connoissance. Je les 
ai invitees \ diner chez vous ce soir : vous nous menerez ^ 
I'op^ra, et nous ferons une petite partie d'dcarte. Tenez vous 
bien, M. Gobard ! ces dames ont des projets sur vous ! " 

Happy Gobard ! happy system, which can thus bring the 
pure and loving together, and acts as the best ally of Hymen 1 



CARJCA TURES AND LITHOGRAPHY /JV PARIS. i6^ 

The announcemevit of the rank and titles of Madame de St. 
Bertrand — " veuve de la grande arm^e " — is very happy. " La 
grande annee " has been a father to more orphans, and a hus- 
band to more widows, than it ever made. Mistresses of cafes^ 
old governesses, keepers of boarding-houses, genteel beggars, 
and ladies of lower rank still, have this favorite pedigree. 
They have all had vialheurs (what kind it is needless to par- 
ticularize), they are all connected with the grand homme, and 
their fathers were all colonels. This title exactly answers to 
the " clergyman's daughter " in England — as, " A young lady, 
the daughter of a clergyman, is desirous to feach," &c. ; " A 
clergyman's widow receives into her house a few select," and so 
forth. " Appeal to the benevolent. — By a series of unheard-of 
calamities, a young lady, daughter of a clergyman in the west 
of England, has been plunged," &c., &c. The difference is 
curious, as indicating the standard of respectability. 

The male beggar of fashion is not so well known among us 
as in Paris, where street-doors are open ; six or eight families 
live in a house ; and the gentleman who earns his livelihood 
by his profession can make half a dozen visits without the 
trouble of knocking from house to house, and the pain of being 
observed by the whole street, while the footman is examining 
him from the area. Some few may be seen in England about 
the inns of court, where the locality is favorable (where, how- 
ever, the owners of the chambers are not proverbially soft of 
heart, so that the harvest must be poor) ; but Paris is full of 
such adventurers, — fat, smooth-tongued, and well dressed, with 
gloves and gilt-headed canes, who would be insulted almost by 
the offer of silver, and expect your gold as their right. Among 
these, of course, our friend Robert plays his part ; and an ex- 
cellent engraving represents him, snuff-box in hand, advancing 
to an old gentleman, whom, by his poodle, his powdered head, 
and his drivelling, stupid look, one knows to be a Carlist of the 
old rt^gime. "I beg pardon," says Robert ; " is it really your- 
self to whom I have the honor of speaking? " — " It is." '* Do 
you take snuff?" — "I thank you." "Sir, I have had misfor- 
tunes — I want assistance. I am a Vend^an of illustrious birth. 
Vou know the family of Macairbec — we are of Brest. My 
grandfather served the King in his galleys ; my father and I 
belong, also, to the marine. Unfortunate suits at law have 
plunged us into difficulties, and I do not hesitate to ask you for 
the succor of ten francs." — " Sir, I never give to those I don't 
know." — " Right, sir, perfectly right. Perhaps you will have 
the kindness to lend me ten francs ? " 



l66 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

The adventures of Doctor Macaire need not be described, 
because the different degrees in quackery which are taken by 
that learned physician are all well known in England, where we 
have the advantage of many higher degrees in the science, 
which our neighbors know nothing about. We have not Hah- 
nemann, but we have his disciples ; we have not Broussais, but 
we have the College of Health ; and surely a dose of Mor- 
rison's pills is a sublimer discovery than a draught of hot 
water. We had St. John Long, too — where is his science ? — 
and we are credibly informed that some important cures ha\e 
been effected by the inspired dignitaries of "the church " in 
Newman Street — which, if it continue to practise, will sadly in- 
terfere with the profits of the regular physicians, and where 
the miracles of the Abbe Paris are about to be acted over 
again. 

In speaking of M. Macaire and his adventures, we have 
managed so .entirely to convince ourselves of the reality of the 
personage, that we have quite forgotten to speak of Messrs. 
Philipon and Daumier, who are, the one the inventor, the other 
the designer, of. the Macaire Picture Gallery. As works of 
esfrit, these drawings are not more remarkable than they 
are as works of art, and we never recollect to have seen a series 
of -sketches possessing more extraordinary cleverness and 
variety. The countenance and figure of Macaire and the dear 
stupid Bertrand are preserved, of course, with great fidelity 
throughout ; but the admirable way in which each fresh char- 
acter is conceived, the grotesque appropriateness of Robert's 
every successive attitude and gesticulation, and the variety of 
Bertrand's postures of invariable repose, the exquisite fitness 
of all the other characters, who act their little part and disap- 
pear from the scene, cannot be described on paper, or too 
highly lauded. The figures are very carelessly drawn ; but if 
the reader can understand us, all the attitudes and limbs are 
perfectly conceived, and wonderfully natural and various. After 
pondering over these drawings for some hours, as we have been 
while compiling this notice of them, we have grown to believe 
that the personages are real, and the scenes remain imprinted 
on the brain as if we had absolutely been present at their act- 
ing. Perhaps the clever way in which the plates are colored, 
and the excellent effect which is put into each, may add to this 
illusion. Now^, in looking, for instance, at H. B.'s slim vapory 
figures, they have struck us as excellent likenesses of men and 
women, but no more : the bodies want spirit, action, and in- 
dividuality. George Cruikshank, as a humorist, has quite as 



CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY IN PARIS. 167 

much genius, but he does not know the art of '' effect " so well 
as Monsieur Daumier ; and, if we might venture to give a word 
of advice to another humorous designer, whose works are ex- 
tensively circulated — the illustrator of "Pickwick" and "Nich- 
olas Nickleby," — it would be to study well these caricatures of 
Monsieur Daumier ; who, though he executes very carelessly, 
knows very well what he would express, indicates perfectly the 
attitude and identity of his figure, and is quite aware, before- 
hand, of the effect which he intends to produce. The one we 
should fancy to be a practised artist, taking his ease ; the other, 
a young one, somewhat bewildered : a very clever one, however, 
who, if he would think more, and exaggerates less, would add 
not a little to his reputation. 

Having pursued, all through these remarks, the comparison 
between English art and French art, English and French hu- 
mor, manners, and morals, perhaps we should endeavor, also, 
to write an analytical essay on English cant or humbug, as 
distinguished from French. It might be shown that the latter 
was more picturesque and startling, the former more substantial 
and positive. It has none of the poetic flights of the French 
genius, but advances steadily, and gains more ground in the 
end than its sprightlier compter. But such a discussion would 
carry us through the whole range of French and English history, 
and the reader has probably read quite enough of the subject 
in this and the foregoing pages. 

We shall, therefore, say no more of French and English 
caricatures generally, or of Mr. Macaire's particular accom- 
plishments and adventures. They are far better understood 
by examining the original pictures, by which Philipon and Dau- 
mier have illustrated them, than by translations first into print 
and afterwards into English. They form a very curious and 
instructive commentary upon the present state of society m 
Paris, and a hundred years hence, when the whole of this 
struggling, noisy, busy, merry race shall have exchanged their 
pleasures or occupations for a quiet coffin (and a tawdry lying 
epitaph) at Monlmartre, or Pere la Chaise ; when the follies 
here recorded shall have been superseded by new ones, and 
the fools now so active shall have given up the inheritance of 
the world to their children : the latter will, at least, have the 
advantage of knowing, intimately and exactly, the manners of 
life and being of their grandsires, and calling up, when they 
so choose it, our ghosts from the grave, to live, love, quarrel, 
swindle, suffer, and struggle on blindly as of yore. And when 
the amused speculator shall have laughed sufficiently at the 



1 68 THE , PA RIS SKE TCH BOOK, 

immensity of our follies, and the paltriness of our aims, smiled 
at our exploded superstitions, wondered how this man should 
be considered great, who is now clean forgotten (as copious 
Guthrie before mentioned) ; how this should have been thought 
a patriot who is but a knave spouting commonplace ; or how 
that should have been dubbed a philosopher who is but a dull 
fool, blinking solemn, and pretending to see in the dark ; when 
he shall have examined all these at his leisure, smiling in a 
pleasant contempt and good-humored superiority, and thanking 
heaven for his increased lights, he will shut the book, and be a 
fool as his fathers were before him. 

It runs in the blood. Well hast thou said, O ragged Mac- 
aire, — " Le jour va passer, mais les badauds ne passeront 

PAS." 



LITTLE POINSLNET 



About the year 1760, there lived, at Paris, a little fellow, 
who was the darling of all the wags of his acquaintance. 
Nature seemed, in the formation of this little man, to have 
amused herself, by giving loose to half a hundred of her most 
comical caprices. He had some wit and drollery of his own, 
which sometimes rendered his sallies very amusing ; but, where 
his friends laughed with him once, they laughed at him a thou- 
sand times, for he had a fund of absurdity in himself that was 
more pleasant than all the wit in the world. He was as proud 
as a peacock, as wicked as an ape, and as silly as a goose. 
He did not possess one single grain of common sense ; but, in 
revenge, his pretensions were enormous, his ignorance vast, 
and his credulity more extensive still. From his youth up- 
wards, he had read nothing but the new novels, and the verses 
in the almanacs, which helped him not a little in making, what 
he called, poetry of his own'; for, of course, our little hero 
was a poet. All the common usages of life, all the ways of 
the world, and all the customs of society, seemed to be quite 
unknown to him ; add to these good qualities, a magnificent 
conceit, a cowardice inconceivable, and a face so irresistibly 
comic, that every one who first beheld it was compelled to 
burst out a laughing, and you will have some notion of this 
strange little gentleman. He was very proud of his voice, and 
Uttered all his sentences in the richest tragic tone. He was 



LITTLE POINSINET. 169 

little better than a dwarf; but he elevated his eyebrows, held 
up his neck, walked on the tips of his toes, and gave himself 
the airs of a giant. He had a little pair of bandy legs, which 
seemed much too short to support anything like a human 
body; but, by the help of these crooked supporters, he thought 
he could dance like a Grace; and, indeed, fancied all the 
graces possible were to be found in his person. His goggle 
eyes were always rolling about wildly, as if in correspondence 
with the disorder of his little brain ; and his countenance thus 
wore an expression of perpetual wonder. With such happy 
natural gifts, he not only fell into all traps that were laid for 
him, but seemed almost to go out of his way to seek them ; 
although, to be sure, his friends did not give him much trouble 
in that search, for they prepared hoaxes for him incessantly. 

One day the wags introduced him to a company of ladies, 
who, though not countesses and princesses exactly, took, never- 
theless, those titles upon themselves for the nonce ; and were 
all, for the same reason, violently smitten with Master Poin- 
sinet's person. One of them, the lady of the house, was es- 
pecially tender; and, seating him by her side at supper, so 
plied him with smiles, ogles,^ and champagne, that our little 
hero grew crazed with ecstasy, and wild with love. In the 
midst of his happiness, a cruel knock was heard below, accom- 
panied by quick loud talking, swearing, and shuffling of feet : 
you would have thought a regiment was at the door. "O 
heavens ! " cried the marchioness, starting up, and giving to 
the hand of Poinsinet one parting squeeze; "fly — fly, my 
Poinsinet : 'tis the colonel — my husband ! " At this, each 
gentleman of the party rose, and, drawing his rapier, vowed to 
cut his way through the colonel and all his mousqueiaires^ or 
die, if need be, by the side of Poinsinet. 

The little fellow was obliged to lug out his sword too, and 
went shuddering down stairs, heartily repenting of his passion 
for marchionesses. When the party arrived in the street, they 
found, sure enough, a dreadful company of viousqudaires, as 
they seemed, ready to oppose their passage. Swords crossed, 
— torches blazed ; and, with the most dreadful shouts and im- 
precations, the contending parties rushed upon one another ; 
the friends of Poinsinet surrounding and supporting that little 
warrior, as the French knights did King Francis at Pavia, 
otherwise the poor fellow certainly would have fallen down in 
the gutter from fright. 

But the combat was suddenly interrupted ; for the neigh- 
bors, who knew nothing of the trick going on, and thought 



170 



THE PARIS SJCETCir BOOK. 



the brawl was real, had been screaming with all their might 
for the police, who began about this time to arrive. Directly 
they appeared, friends and enemies of Poinsinet at once took 
to their heels ; and, in this part of the transaction, at least, 
our hero himself showed that he was equal to the longest-legged 
grenadier that ever ran away. 

When, at last, those little bandy legs of his had borne him 
safely to his lodgings, all Poinsinet's friends crowded round 
him, to congratulate him on his escape and valor. 

" Egad, how he pinked that great red-haired fellow ! " said 
one. 

" No ; did I ? " said Poinsinet. 

" Did you ? Psha ! don't try to play the modest, and hum- 
bug MS ; you know you did. I suppose you will say, next, that 
you were not for three minutes point to point with Cartentierce 
himself, the most dreadful swordsman of the army." 

" Why, you see," says Poinsinet, quite delighted, "it was so 
dark that I did not know with whom I was engaged ; although, 
corhleu., I did for one or two of the fellows." And after a little 
more of such conversation, during which he was fully jDcr- 
suaded that he had done for a dozen of the enemy at least, 
Poinsinet went to bed, his little person trembling with fright 
and pleasure ; and he fell asleep, and dreamed of rescuing 
ladies, and destroying monsters, like a second Amadis de 
Gaul. 

When he awoke in the morning, he found a party of his 
friends in his room : one was examining his coat and waistcoat; 
another was casting many curious glances at his inexpressibles. 
" Look here ! " said this gentleman, holding up his garment to 
the light ; " one — two — three gashes ! I am hanged if the 
cowards did not aim at Poinsinet's legs ! There are four holes 
in the sword arm of his coat, and seven have gone right through 
coat and waistcoat. Good heaven ! Poinsinet, have you had a 
surgeon to your wounds .'' " 

"Wounds!" said the little man, springing up, "I don't 
know — that is, I hope — that is — O Lord ! O Lord ! I hope 
I'm not wounded ! " and after a proper examination, he dis- 
covered he was not. 

"Thank heaven! thank heaven 1 " said one of the wags 
(who, indeed, during the slumbers of Poinsinet had been occu- 
pied in making these very holes through the garments of that 
individual), " if you have escaped, it is by a miracle. Alas .' 
alas ! all your enemies have not been so lucky." 

" How ! is anybody wounded t " said Poinsinet. 



LITTLE POINSINET 



171 



" My dearest friend, prepare yourself ; that unhappy man 
who came to revenge his menaced honor — that gallant officer^ 
that injured husband, Colonel Count de Cartentierce " 

'Well?" 

" Is NO MORE ! he died this morning, pierced through /with 
nineteen wounds from your hand, and calling upon his country 
to revenge his murder." 

When this awful sentence was pronounced, all the auditory 
gave a pathetic and simultaneous sob ; and as for Poinsinet, 
he sank back on his bed with a howl of terror, which would 
have melted a Visigoth to tears, or to laughter. As soon as 
his terror and remorse had, in some degree, subsided, his com- 
rades si^oke to him of the necessity of making his escape ; and, 
huddling on his clothes, and bidding them all a tender adieu, 
he set off, incontinently, without his breakfast, for England, 
America, or Russia, not knowing exactly which. 

One of his companions agreed to accompany him on a. part 
of this journey, — that is, as far as the barrier of St. Denis^ 
which is, as everybody knows, on the high road to Dover; and 
there, being tolerably secure, they entered a tavern for break- 
fast ; which meal, the last that he ever was to take, perhaps, in 
his native city, Poinsinet was just about to discuss, when be- 
hold ! a gentleman entered the apartment where Poinsinet and 
his friend were seated, and, drawing from his pocket a paper, 
with " Au NOM DU Roy " flourished on the top, read from it, 
or rather from Poinsinet's own figure, his exact signalement, 
laid his hand on his shoulder, and arrested him in the name of 
the King, and of the provost-marshal of Paris. "1 arrest you, 
sir," said he, gravely, "with regret; you have slain, with seven- 
teen wounds, in single combat. Colonel Count de Cartentierce, 
one of his Majesty's household ; and, as his murderer, you fall 
under the immediate authority of the provost-marshal, and die 
without trial or benefit of clergy." 

You may fancy how the poor little man's appetite fell when 
he heard this speech. " In the provost-marshal's hands .? " said 
his friend : " then it is all over, indeed ! When does my poor 
friend suffer, sir ? " 

" At half-past six o'clock, the day after to-morrow," said 
the officer, sitting down, and helping himself to wine. " But 
stop," said he, suddenly ; "sure I can't mistake ? Yes — no — 
yes, it is. My dear friend, my dear Durand ! don't you recol- 
lect your old schoolfellow, Antoine ? " And herewith the offi- 
cer flung himself into the arms of Durand, Poinsinet's comrade, 
^nd they performed a most affecting scene of friendship. 



1 7 2 THE PARIS SKE TCH BOOK, 

/' This may be of some service to you," whispered Durand 
to Poinsinet; and, after some further parley, he asked the 
officer when he was bound to deliver up his prisoner ; and 
hearing that he was not called upon to appear at the Marsh- 
alsea before six o'clock at night, Monsieur Durand prevailed 
upon Monsieur Antoine to wait until that hour, and in the 
mean time to allow his prisoner to walk about the town in his 
company. This request was, with a little difficulty, granted , 
and poor Poinsinet begged to be carried to the houses of his 
various friends, and bid them farewell. Some were aware of 
the trick that had been played upon him ; others were not ; 
but the poor little man's credulity was so great, that it was im- 
possible to undeceive him ; and he went from house to house 
bewailing his fate, and followed by the complaisant marshal's 
officer. 

The news of his death he received with much more meek- 
ness than could have been expected ; but what he could not 
reconcile to himself was, the idea of dissection afterwards. 
" What can they want with me ? " cried the poor wretch, in an 
unusual fit of candor. '' I am very small and ugly ; it would 
be different if I were a tall, -fine-looking fellow." But he was 
given to understand that beauty made very little difference to 
the surgeons, who, on the contrary, would, on certain occasions, 
prefer a deformed man to a handsome one ; for science was 
much advanced by the study of such monstrosities. With this 
reason Poinsinet was obliged to be content ; and so paid his 
rounds of visits, and repeated his dismal adieux. 

The officer of the provost-marshal, however amusing Poin- 
sinet's woes might have been, began, by this time, to grow very 
weary of them, and gave him more than one opportunity to 
escape. He would stop at shop-windows, loiter round corners, 
and look up in the sky, but all in vain : Poinsinet would not 
escape, do what the other would. At length, luckily, about 
dinner-time, the officer met one of Poinsinet's friends and his 
own : and the three agreed to dine at a tavern, as they had 
breakfasted ; and here the officer, who vowed that he had been 
up for five weeks incessantly, fell suddenly asleep, in the pro- 
foundest fatigue ; and Poinsinet was persuaded, after much 
hesitation on his part, to take leave of him. 

And now, this danger overcome, 'another was to be avoided. 
Beyond a doubt the police were after him, and how was he to 
avoid them t He must be disguised, of course ; and one of his 
friends, a tall, gaunt lawyer's clerk, agreed to provide him with 
habits. 



LITTLE PO INS I NET 173 

So little Poinsinet dressed himself out in the clerk's dingy 
black suit, of which the knee-breeches hung down to his heels, 
and the waist of the coat reached to the calves of his legs ; and, 
furthermore, he blacked his e3'ebrows, and wore a huge black 
periwig, in which his friend vowed that no one could recognize 
him. But the most painful incident, with regard to the peri- 
wig, was, that Poinsinet, whose solitary beauty— if beauty it 
might be called — was a head of copious, curling, yellow hair, 
was compelled to snip off every one of his golden locks, and to 
rub the bristles with a black dye*, "for if your wig were to 
come off," said the lawyer, "and your fair hair to tumble over 
your shoulders, every man would know, or at least suspect you." 
So off the locks were cut, and in his black suit and periwig 
little Poinsinet went abroad. 

His friends had their cue ; and when he appeared amongst 
them, no one seemed to know him. He was taken into com- 
panies where his character was discussed before him, and his 
wonderful escape spoken of. At last he was introduced to the 
very officer of the provost-marshal who had taken him into 
custody, and who told him that he had been dismissed the pro- 
vost's service, in consequence of the escape of the prisoner. 
Now, for the first time, poor -Poinsinet thought himself tolera- 
bly safe, and blessed his kind friends who had procured for him 
such a complete disguise. How this affair ended I know not, 
— whether some new lie was coined to account for his release, 
or whether he was simply told that he had been hoaxed : it 
mattered little ; for the little man was quite as ready to be 
hoaxed the next day. 

Poinsinet was one day invited to dine with one of the ser- 
vants of the Tuileries ; and, before his arrival, a person in com- 
pany had been decorated with a knot of lace and a gold key, 
such as chamberlains wear ; h$ was introduced to Poinsinet as 
the Count de Truchses, chamberlain to the King of Prussia. 
After dinner the conversation fell upon the Count's visit to 
Paris ; when his Excellency, with a mysterious air, vowed that 
he nad only come for pleasure. " It is mighty well," said 
a third person, " and, of course, we can't cross-question your 
lordship too closely ; " but at the same time it was hinted to 
Poinsinet that a person of such consequence did not travel for 
notJmig^ with which opinion Poinsinet solemnly agreed ; and, 
indeed, it was borne out by a subsequent declaration of the 
Count, who condescended, at last, to tell the company, in con- 
fidence, that he had a mission, and a most important one — to 
fmd^ namely, among the literary men of France, a governor for 



174 



THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 



the Prince Royal of Prussia. , The company seemea astonished 
that the King had not made choice of Voltaire or D'Alembert, 
and mentioned a dozen other distinguished men who might be 
competent to this important duty ) but the Count, as may be 
imagined, found objections to every one of them ; and, at last, 
one of the guests said, that if his Prussian Majesty was not 
particular as to age, he knew a person more fitted for the place 
than any other who could be found, — his honorable friend, M. 
Poinsinet, was the individual to whom he alluded. 

" Good heavens ! " cried the Count, " is it possible that the 
celebrated Poinsinet would take such a place .'' I would give 
the world to see him ! " And you may fancy how Poinsinet 
simpered and blushed when the introduction immediately took 
place. 

The Count protested to him that the King would be charmed 
to know him ; and added, that one of his operas (for it must 
be told that our little friend was a vaudeville-maker by trade) 
had been acted seven-and-twenty times at the theatre at Pots- 
dam. His Excellency then detailed to him all the honors and 
privileges which the governor of the Prince Royal might ex- 
pect ; and all the guests encouraged the little man's vanity, by 
asking him for his protection and favor. In a short time our 
hero grew so inflated with pride and vanity, that he was for 
patronizing the chamberlain himself, who proceeded to inform 
him that he was furnished with all the necessary powers by his 
sovereign, who had specially enjoined him to confer upon the 
future governor of his son the royal order of the Black Eagle. 

Poinsinet, delighted, was ordered to kneel down ; and the 
Count produced a large yellow ribbon, which he hung over his 
shoulder, and which was, he declared, the grand cordon of the 
order. You must fancy Poinsinet's face, and excessive delight 
at this ; for as for describing them, nobody can. For four-and- 
twenty hours the happy chevalier paraded through Paris with 
this flaring yellow ribbon ; and he was not undeceived until his 
friends had another trick in store for him. 

He dined one day in the company of a man who understood 
a little of the noble art of conjuring, and performed some clever 
tricks on the cards. Poinsinet's organ of wonder was -enor- 
mous ; he looked on with the gravity and awe of a child, and 
thought the man's tricks sheer miracles. It wanted no more 
to set his companions to work. 

"Who is this wonderful man ? " said he to his neighbor. 

"Why," said the other mysteriously, "one hardly knows 
who he is ; or, at least, one does not like to say to such an in- 



LITTLE PO INS I NET. 



ns 



discreet fellow as you are." Poinsinet at once swore to be 
secret. " Well, then," said his friend, " you will hear that 
man — that wonderful man — called by a name which is not his: 
his real name is Acosta ; he is a Portuguese Jew, a Rosicrucian, 
and Cabalist of the first order, and compelled to leave Lisbon 
for fear of the Inquisition. He performs here, as you see, 
some extraordinary things, occ-sionally ; but the master of the 
house, who loves him excessively, would not, for the world, 
that his name should be made pulolic." 

*' Ah, bah ! " said Poinsinet, who affected the hel esprit !''' 
" you don't mean to say that you believe in magic, and cabalas, 
and such trash ? " 

" Do I not ? You shall judge for yourself." And accord- 
ingly, Poinsinet was presented to the magician, who pretended 
to take a vast liking for him, and declared that he saw in him 
certain marks which would infallibly lead him to great eminence 
in the magic art, if he chose to study it. 

Dinner was served, and Poinsinet placed by the side of tiie 
miracle-worker, who became very confidential with him, and 
promised him — ay, before dinner was over — a remarkable in- 
stance of his power. Nobody, on this occasion, ventured to cut 
a single joke against poor Poinsinet ; nor could he fancy that 
any trick was intended against him, for the demeanor of the 
society towards him was perfectly grave and respectful, and the 
conversation serious. On a sudden, however, somebody ex- 
claimed, " Where is Poinsinet ? Did anv one see him leave the 



> » 



room 

All the company exclaimed how singular the disappearance 
was ; and Poinsinet himself, growing alarmed, turned round to 
his neighbor, and was about to explain. 

" Hush ! " said the magician, in a whisper ; " I told you 
that you should see what I could do. I haz-e made you invisible ; 
be quiet, and you shall see some more tricks that I shall play 
with these fellows." 

Poinsinet remained then silent, and listened to his neighbors, 
who agreed, at last, that he was a quiet, orderly personage, and 
had left the table early, being unwilling to drink too much. 
Presently they ceased to talk about him, and resumed their 
conversation upon other matters. 

At first it was very quiet and grave, but the master of the 
house brought back the talk to the subject of Poinsinet, and 
uttered all sorts of abuse concerning him. He begged the 
gentleman, who had introduced such a little scamp into his 
house, to bring him thither no more : whereupon the other took 



1 76 THE PARIS SKE TCH BOOIC. 

up, warmly, Poinsinet's defence ; declared that he was a man 
of the greatest merit, frequenting the best society, and remark- 
able for his talents as well as his virtues. 

" Ah ! " said Poinsinet to the magician, quite charmed at 
what he heard, " how ever shall I thank you, my dear sir, for 
thus showing me who my true friends are ? " 

The magician promised him still further favors in prospect ; 
and told him to look out now, for he was about to throw all 
the company into a temporary fit of madness, which, no doubt, 
would be very amusing. 

In consequence, all the company, who had heard every syl- 
lable of the conversation, began to perform the most extraor- 
dinary antics, much to the delight of Poinsinet. One asked a 
nonsensical question, and the other delivered an answer not at 
all to the purpose. If a man asked for a drink, they poured 
him out a pepper-box or a napkin : they took a pinch of snuff, 
and swore it was excellent wine ; and vowed that the bread 
was the most delicious mutton ever tasted. The little man was 
delighted. 

" Ah ! " said he, " these fellows are prettily punished for 
their rascally backbiting of me ! " 

"Gentlemen," said the host, "I shall now give you some 
celebrated champagne," and he poured out to each a glass of 
water. 

" Good heavens ! " said one, spitting it out, with the most 
horrible grimace, " where did you get this detestable claret t " 

" Ah, faugh ! " said a second, " I never tasted such vile 
corked burgundy in all my days ! " and he threw the glass of 
water into Poinsinet's face, as did half a dozen of the other 
guests, drenching the poor wretch to the skin. To complete 
this pleasant illusion, two of the guests felt to boxing across 
Poinsinet, who received a number of the blows, and received 
them with the patience of a fakir, feeling himself more flattered 
by the precious privilege of beholding this scene invisible, than 
hurt by the blows and buffets which the mad company be- 
stowed upon him. 

The fame of this adventure spread quickly over Paris, and 
all the world longed to have at their houses the representation 
of Poinsifiet the Invisible. The servants and the whole confpany 
^^sed to be put up to the trick ; and Poinsinet, who believed in 
his invisibility as much as he did in his existence, went about 
with his friend and protector the magician. People, of course, 
never pretended to see him, and would very often not talk of 
him at all for some time, but hold sober conversation about 



LITTLE POINSWET. 



177 



Utiything else in the world. When dinner was served, of course 
there was no cover laid for Poinsinet, who carried about a 
little stool, on which he sat by the side of the magician, and 
always ate off his plate. Everybody was astonished at the 
magician's appetite and at the quantity of wine he drank ; as 
for little Poinsinet, he never once suspected any trick, and had 
such a confidence in his magician, that, I do believe, if the 
latter had told him to fling himself out of window, he would 
have done so, without the slightest trepidation. 

Among other mystifications in which the Portuguese en- 
chanter plunged himself, was one which used to afford always 
a good deal of amusement. He informed Poinsinet, with great 
mystery, that he was not Jmnself ; he was not, that is to say, that 
ugly, deformed little monster, called Poinsinet ; but that his 
birth was most illustrious, and his real name Poly carte. He 
was, in fact, the son of a celebrated magician ; but other magi- 
cians, enemies of his father, had changed him in his cradle, 
altering his features into their present hideous shape, in order 
that a silly old fellow, called Poinsinet, might take him to be 
his own son, which little monster the magician had likewise 
spirited away. 

The poor wretch was sadly, cast down at this ; for he tried 
to fancy that his person was agreeable to the ladies, of whom 
he was one of the warmest little admirers possible ; and to 
console him somewhat, the magician told him that his real 
shape was exquisitely beautiful, and as soon as he should ap- 
pear in it, all the beauties in Paris would be at his feet. But 
how to regain it t " Oh, for one minute of that beauty ! " cried 
the little man ; what would he not give to appear under that 
enchanting form ! " The magician hereupon waved his stick 
over his head, pronounced some awful magical words, and 
iwisted him round three times ; at the third twist, the men in 
company seemed struck with astonishment and envy, the ladies 
clasped their hands, and some of them kissed his. Everybody 
declared his beauty to be supernatural. 

Poinsinet, enchanted, rushed to a glass. " Fool ! " said 
the magician ; " do you suppose thatjw/ can see the change.? 
My powder to render you invisible, beautiful, or ten times more 
hideous even than you are, extends only to others, not to you. 
You may look a thousand times in the glass, and you will only 
see those deformed limbs and disgusting features with which 
devilish malice has disguised you." Poor little Poinsinet looked 
and came back in tears. " But," resumed the magician, — " ha, 
ha, ha ! — /know a way in which to disappoint the machinations 
of these fiendish magi." i2 



1 78 THE PARIS SKE TCH BOOIC, 

" Oh, my benefactor ! — my great master ! — for heaven's sake 
tell it ! " gasped Poinsinet. 

" Look you — it is this. A prey to enchantment and demo- 
niac art all your life long, you have lived until your present age 
perfectly satisfied ; nay, absolutely vain of a person the most 
singularly hideous that ever walked the earth ! " 

"/i" it?" whispered Poinsinet. "Indeed and indeed I 
didn't think it so bad ! " 

" He acknowledges it ! he acknowledges it ! " roared the 
magician. " Wretch, dotard, owl, mole, miserable buzzard ! I 
have no reason to tell thee how that thy form is monstrous, 
that children cry, that cowards turn pale, that teeming matrons 
shudder to behold it. It is not thy fault that thou art thus un- 
gainly :, but wherefore so blind .'* wherefore so conceited of thy- 
self 1 I tell thee, Poinsinet, that over every fresh instance of 
thy vanity the hostile enchanters rejoice and triumph. As long 
as thou art blindly satisfied with thyself ; as long as thou pre- 
tendest, in thy present odious shape, to win the love of aught 
above a negress ; nay, further still, until thou hast learned to 
regard that face, as others, do, with the most intolerable horror 
and disgust, to abuse it when thou seest it, to despise it, in 
short, and treat that miserable disguise in which the enchanters 
have wrapped thee with the strongest hatred and scorn, so long 
art thou destined to wear it." 

^ Such speeches as these, continually repeated, caused Poin- 
sinet to be fully convinced of his ugliness ; he used to go about 
in companies, and take every opportunity of inveighing against 
himself ; he made verses and epigrams against himself ; he 
talked about "that dwarf, Poinsinet ;" "that buffoon, Poinsi- 
net ; " "that conceited, hump-backed Poinsinet ; " and he would 
spend hours before the glass, abusing his own face as he saw 
it reflected there, and vowing that he grew handsomer at every 
fresh epithet that he uttered. 

Of course the wags, from time to time, used to give him 
every possible encouragement, and declared that, since this ex- 
ercise, his person was amazingly improved. The ladies, too, 
began to be so excessively iond of him, that the little fellow 
was obliged to caution them at last — for the good, as he said, 
of society; he recommended them to draw lots, for he could 
not gratify them all ; but promised, when his metamorphosis 
was complete, that the one chosen should become the happy 
Mrs. Poinsinet ; or to speak more correctly, Mrs. Polycarte. 

I am sorry to say, however, that, on the score of gallantry, 
Poinsinet was never quite convinced of the hideousness of his 



LITTLE POINSINET. 



79 



appearance. He had a number of adventures, accordingly, 
with the ladies, but strange to say, the husbands or fathers were 
always interrupting him. On one occasion he was made to 
pass the night in a slipper-bath full of water ; where, although 
he had all his clothes on, he declared that he nearly caught his 
death of cold. Another night, in revenge, the poor fellow 

" dans ]e simple appareil 

D'une beaute, qu'on vient d'arracher au sommeil," 

spent a number of hours contemplating the beauty of the moon 
on the tiles. These adventures are pretty numerous in the 
memoirs of M. Poinsinet ; but the fact is, that people in France 
were a great deal more philosophical in those days than the 
English are now, so that Poinsinet's loves must be passed over, 
as not being to our taste. His magician was a great diver, and 
told Poinsinet the most wonderful tales of his two minutes' 
absence under water. These two minutes, he said, lasted 
through a year, at least, which he spent in the company of a 
naiad, more beautiful than Venus, in a palace more splendid 
than even Versailles. Fired by the description, Poinsinet used 
to dip, and dip, but he never was known to make any mermaid 
acquaintances, although he fully believed that one day he should 
find such. 

The invisible joke was brought to an end by Poinsinet's 
too great reliance on it ; for beinfr, as we have said, of ,a very 
tender and sanguine disposition, he one day fell in love with a 
lady in whose company he dined, and whom he actually pro- 
posed to embrace ; but the fair lady, in the hurry of the mo- 
ment, forgot to act up to the joke ; and instead of receiving 
Poinsinet's salute with calmness, G;rew indi2:nant, called him 
an impudent little scoundrel, and lent him a sound box on the 
ear. With this slap the invisibility of Poinsinet disappeared, 
the gnomes and genii left him, and he settled down into common 
life again, and was hoaxed only by vulgar means. 

A vast number of pages might be filled with narratives of 
the tricks that Were played upon him ; but they resemble each 
other a good deal, as may be imagined, and the chief point re- 
markable about them is the wondrous faith of Poinsinet. After 
being introduced to the Prussian ambassador at the Tuileries, 
he was presented to the Turkish envoy at the Place Vendome, 
who received him in state, surrounded by the officers of his 
establishment, all dressed in the smartest dresses that the ward- 
robe of the Opera Comique could furnish. 

As the greatest honor that could be done to him, Poinsinet 
was invited to eat, and a tray was produced, on which was a 



l8o THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

delicate dish prepared in the Turkish manner. This consisted 
of a reasonable quantity of mustard, salt, cinnamon and ginger, 
nutmegs and cloves, with a couple of tablespoonfuls of cayenne 
pepper, to give the whole a flavor ; and Poinsinet's countenance 
may be imagined when he introduced into his mouth a quantity 
of this exquisite compound. 

" The best of the joke was," says the author who records 
so many of the pitiless tricks practised upon poor Poinsinet, 
*' that the little man used to laugh at them afterwards himself 
with perfect good-humor ; and lived in the daily hope that, 
from being the sufferer, he should become the agent in these 
hoaxes, and do to others as he had been done by." Passing, 
therefore, one day, on the Pont Neuf, with a friend, who had 
been one of the greatest performers, the latter said to him, 
" Poinsinet, my good fellow, thou has suffered enough, and thy 
sufferings have made thee so wise and cunning, that thou art 
worthy of entering among the initiated, and hoaxing in thy 
turn." Poinsinet was charmed ; he asked when he should be 
initiated, and how? It was told him that a moment would 
suffice, and that the ceremony might be performed on the spot. 
At this news, and according to order, Poinsinet flung himself 
straightway on his knees in the kennel ; and the other, drawing 
his sword, solemnly initiated him into the sacred order of 
jokers. From that day the little man believed himself received 
into the society ; and to this having brought him, let us bid 
him a respectful adieu. 



THE DEVIL'S WAGER. 



It was the hour of the night when there be none stirring 
save churchyard ghosts — when all doors are closed except the 
gates of graves, and all eyes shut but the eyes of wicked men. 

When there is no sound on the earth except the ticking of 
the grasshopper, or the croaking of obscene frogs in the poole. 

And no light except that of the blinking starres, and the 
wicked and devilish wills-o'-the-wisp, as they gambol among 
the marshes, and lead good men astraye. 

When there is nothing moving in heaven except the owle, 
as he flappeth along lazily ; or the magician, as he rides on his 



THE DEVWS WAGER, rSi 

infernal broomsticke, whistling through the aire like the arrowes 
of a Yorkshire archere. 

It was at this hour (namely, at twelve o'clock of the night,) 
that two beings went winging through the black clouds, and 
holding converse with each other. 

Now the first was Mercurius, the messenger, not of gods 
(as the heathens feigned), but of daemons ; and the second, 
with whom he held company, was the soul of Sir Roger de 
Rollo, the brave knight. Sir Roger was Count of Chauchigny, 
in Champagne ; Seigneur of Santerre, Villacerf and aultnp 
lieux. But the great die as well as the humble ; and nothing 
remained of brave Roger now, but his coffin and his deathless 
soul. 

And Mercurius, in order to keep fast the soul, his com- 
panion, had bound him round the neck with his tail ; which, 
when the soul was stubborn, he would draw so tight as to 
strangle him wellnigh, sticking into him the barbed point 
thereof; whereat the poor soul. Sir Rollo, would groan and 
roar lustily. 

Now they two had come together from the gates of pur- 
gatoire, being bound to those regions of fire and flame where 
poor sinners fry and roast in sa^cula saeculorum. 

" It is hard," said the poor Sir Rollo, as they went gliding 
through the clouds, " that I should thus be condemned for 
ever, and all for the want of a single ave." 

" How, Sir Soul t " said the daemon. " You were on earth 
so wicked, that not one, or a million of aves, could suffice to 
keep from hell-flame a creature like thee ; but cheer up and be 
merry ; thou wilt be but a subject of our lord the Devil, as am 
I ; and, perhaps, thou wilt be advanced to posts of honor, as 
am I also : " and to show his authoritie, he lashed with his tail 
the ribbes of the wretched Rollo. 

" Nevertheless, sinner as I am, one more ave would have 
saved me ; for my sister, who was Abbess of St. Mary of 
Chauchigny, did so prevail, by her prayer and good works, for 
my lost and wretched soul, that every day I felt the pains of 
purgatory decrease ; the pitchforks which, on my first entry, 
had never ceased to vex and torment my poor carcass, were 
now not applied above once a week ; the roastin;^ had ceased, 
the boiling had discontinued ; only a certain warmth was kept 
up, to remind me of my situation." 
" A gentle stewe," said the daemon. 

" Yea, truly, I was but in a stew, and all from the effects of 
the prayers of my blessed sister. But yesterday, he whp 



l82 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOIC 

watched me in purgatory told me, that yet another prayer from 
my sister, and my bonds should be unloosed, and I, who am 
now a devil, should have been a blessed angel." 

" And the other ave ? " said the dcemon. 

" She died, sir — my sister died — death choked her in the 
middle of the prayer." And hereat the wretched spirit began 
to weepe and whine piteoasly; his salt tears falling over his 
beard, and scalding the tail of Mercurius the devil. 

"It is, in truth, a hard case," said the daemon; "but I 
-know of no remedy save patience, and for that you will have an 
excellent opportunity in your lodgings below." 

" But I have relations," said the Earl ; "my kinsman Ran- 
dal, who has inherited my lands, will he not say a prayer for 
his uncle 1 " 

" Thou didst hate and oppress him when living." 

" It is true ; but an ave is not much ; his sister, my niece, 
Matilda " 

" You shut her in a convent, and hanged her lover." 

" Had I not reason ? besides, has she not others ? " 

" A dozen, without doubt." 

" And my brother, the prior ? " 

"A liege subject of my lord the Devil : he never opens his 
mouth, except to utter an oath, or to swallow a cup of wine." 

" And yet, if but one of these would but say an ave for me, 
I should be saved." 

" Aves with them are rarse aves," replied Mercurius, wag- 
ging his tail right waggishly; "and, what is more, I will lay 
thee any wager that not one of these will say a prayer to save 
thee." 

" I would wager willingly," responded he of Chauchigny ; 
" but what has a poor soul like me to stake .'' " 

" Every evening, after the day's roasting, my lord Satan 
giveth a cup of cold water to his servants ; I will bet thee thy 
water for a year, that none of the three will pray for thee." 

" Done ! " said Rollo. 

" Done ! " said the daemon ; " and here, if I mistake not, is 
thy castle of Chauchigny." ";\ 

Indeed, it was true. The soul, on looking down, perceived 
the tall towers, the courts, the stables, and the fair gardens of 
the castle. Although it was past midnight, there was a blaze 
of light in the banqueting-hall, and a lam^D burning in the open 
window of the Lady Matilda. 

" With whom shall we begin ? " said the daemon ; "with th^ 
b^ron or th^ lady ? " 



THE DEVIVS WAGER. 



1S3 



With the lady, if you will." 
" Be it so ; her window is open, let us enter." 
So they descended, and entered silently into Matilda's 
chamber. 

* /t * * * 

The young lady's eyes were fixed so intently on a little 
clock, that it was no wonder that she did not perceive the en- 
trance of her two visitors. Her fair cheek rested on her white 
arm, and her white arm on the cushion of agreat chair in which 
she sat, pleasantly supported by sweet thoughts and swan's 
down ; a lute was at her side, and a book of prayers lay under 
the table (for piety is always modest). Like the amorous 
Alexander, she sighed and looked (at the clock) and sighed for 
ten minutes or more, when she softly breathed the word " Ed- 
ward ! " 

At this the soul of the Baron was wroth. *' The jade is at 
her old pranks," said he to the devil ; and then addressing 
Matilda : " I pray thee, sweet niece, turn thy thoughts for a 
moment from that villanous page, Edward, and give them to 
thine affectionate uncle." 

When she heard the voice, and saw the awful apparition of 
her uncle (for a year's sojourn in purgatory had not increased 
the comeliness of his appearance), she started, screamed, and 
of course fainted. 

But the devil Mercurius soon restored her to herself. 
" What's o'clock ? " said she, as soon as she had recovered from 
her fit : " is he come ?" 

" Not thy lover, Maude, but thine uncle — that is, his soul. 
For the love of heaven, listen to me : 1 have been frying in 
purgatory for a year past, and should have been in heaven but 
for the want of a single ave." 

" I will say it for thee to-morrow, uncle." 

" To night, or never." 

" Well, to-night be it : " and she requested the devil Mer- 
curius to give her the prayer-book from under the table ; but 
he had no sooner touched the holy book than he dropped it 
with a shriek and a yell. " It was hotter," he said, " than his 
master Sir Lucifer's own particular pitchfork." And the lady 
was forced to begin her ave without the aid of her missal. 

At the commencement of her devotions the daemon retired, 
and carried with him the anxious soul of poor Sir Roger de 
Rollo. 

The lady knelt down — she sighed deeply ; she looked again 
at the clock, and began — 



1^4 THE PARIS SK£TC// BOOK. 

"Ave Maria." 

When a lute was heard under the window, and a sweet 
vc ice singing — 

" Hark ! " said Matilda. 

" Now the toils of the day are over, 
And the sun hath sunk to rest, 
Seeking, like a fiery lover, 
The bosom of the blushing west — 

" The faithful night keeps watch and ward. 
Raising the moon, her silver shield, 
And summoning the stars to guard 
The slumbers of my fair Matbilde 1" 

" For mercy's sake ! " said Sir Rollo, " the ave first, and 
next the song." 

So Matilda again dutifully betook her to her devotions, and 
began — 

" Ave Maria gratia plena ! " but the music began again, and 
the prayer ceased of course. 

" The faithful night ! Now all things lie 
Hid by her mantle dark and dim. 
In pious hope I hither hie, 
And humbly chaunt mine ev'ning hymn. 

*• Thou art my prayer, my saint, my shrine I 
(For never noly pilgrim kneel'd, 
Or wept at feet more pure than thine), 
My virgin love, my sweet Mathilde ! ' 

" Virgin love ! " said the Baron. " Upon my soul, this is 
too bad ! " and he thought of the lady's lover whom he had 
caused to be hanged. 

But she only thought of him who stood singing at her win- 
dow. 

"Niece Matilda!" cried Sir Roger, agonizedly, "wilt thou 
listen to the lies of an impudent page, whilst thine uncle is 
waiting but a dozen words to make him happy?" 

At this Matilda grew angry : " Edward is neither impudent 
nor a liar. Sir Uncle, and I will listen to the end of the song." 

" Come away," said Mercurius ; " he hath yet got wield, 
field, sealed, congealed, and a dozen other, rhymes beside ; and 
after the song will come the supper." 

So the poor soul was obliged to go ; while the lady listened, 

and the page sung away till morning. 

# # ■* * * # 

" My virtues have been my ruin," said poor Sir Rollo, as he 
and Mercurius slunk silently out of the window. " Had I 
hanged that knave Edward, as I did the page his predecessor, 



THE DEVI US WAGER. 1.S5 

my niece would have sung mine ave, and I should have been 
by this time an angel in heaven." 

" He is reserved for wiser purposes," responded the devil : 
" he will assassinate your successor, the lady Mathilde's brother \ 
and, in consequence, will be hanged. In the love of the lady 
he will be succeeded by a gardener, who will be replaced by a 
monk, who will give way to an ostler, who will be deposed by 
a Jew pedlar, who shall, finally, yield to a noble earl, the future 
husband of the fair Mathilde. So that, you see, instead of 
having one poor soul a-frying, w^e may now look forward to a 
goodly harvest for our lord the Devil." 

The soul of the Baron began to think that his companion 
knew too much for one who would make fair bets j but there 
was no help for it ; he would not, and he could not, cry off : 
and he prayed inwardly that the brother might be found more 
pious than the sister. 

But there seemed little chance of this. As they crossed 
the court, lackeys, with smoking dishes and full jugs, passed 
and repassed continually, although it was long past midnight. 
On entering the hall, they found Sir Randall at the head of a 
vast table, surrounded by a fiercer and more motley collection 
of individuals than had congregated there even in the time of 
Sir Rollo. The lord of the castle had signified that " it was 
his royal pleasure to be drunk," and the gentlemen of his train 
had obsequiously followed their master, Mercurius was de- 
lighted with the scene, and relaxed his usual rigid countenance 
iato a bland and benevolent smile, which became him wonder- 
fully. 

The entrance of Sir Roger, who had been dead about a 
year, and a person with hoofs, horns, and a tail, rather disturbed 
the hilarity of the company. Sir Randal dropped his cup of 
wine ; and P'ather Peter, the confessor, incontinently paused in 
the midst of a profane song, with which he was amusing the 
society. 

" Holy Mother ! " cried he, " it is Sir Roger." 

" Alive ! " screamed Sir Randal. 

** No, my lord," Mercurius said ; " Sir Roger is dead, but 
Cometh on a matter of business ; and I have the honor to act 
as his counsellor and attendant." 

" Nephew," said Sir Roger, "the daemon saith justly; I am 
come on a trifling affair, in which thy service is essential." 

" I will do anything, uncle, in my power." 

" Thou canst give me life, if thou wilt ? " But Sir Randal 
looked very blank at this proposition. '' I mean life spiritual, 



1 86 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK, 

Randal," said Sir Roger ; and thereupon he explained to him 
the nature of the wager. 

Whilst he was telling his story, his companion Mercurius 
was playing all sorts of antics in the hall ; and by his wit and 
fun, became so popular with this godless crew, that they lost 
all the fear which his first appearance had given them. The 
friar was wonderfully taken with him, and used his utmost 
eloquence and endeavors to convert the devil ; the knights 
stopped drinking to listen to the argument ; the men-at-arms 
forbore brawling ; and the wicked little pages crowded round 
the two strange disputants, to hear their edifying discourse. 
The ghostly man, however, had little chance in the controversy, 
and certainly little learning to carry it on. Sir Randal inter- 
rupted him. " Father Peter," said he, " our kinsman is con- 
demned forever, for want of a single ave : wilt thou say it for 
him ? " " Willingly, my lord," said the monk, " with my book ; " 
and accordingly he produced his missal to read, without which 
aid it appeared that the holy father could not manage the 
desired prayer. But the crafty Mercurius had, by his devilish 
art, inserted a song in the place of the ave, so that Father 
Peter, instead of chaunting an hymn, sang the following irrev- 
erent ditty : — 

" Some love the matin-cliimes, which tell 

The hour of prayer to sinner : 
But better far's the mid-daybell, 

Wliich speaks the hour of dinner ; 
For when I see a smoking fish, 

Or capon drown'd in gravy, 
Or noble haunch on silver dish, 

Full glad I sing mine ave. 

** My pulpit is an alehouse bench, 

Whereon I sit so jolly ; 
A smiling rosy country wench, 

My saint and patron holy- 
I kiss her cheek so red and sleek, 

I press her ringlets wavy. 
And in her willing ear I speak 

A most religious ave. 

"And if I'm blind, yet heaven is kind, 

And holy saints forgiving ; 
For sure he leads a right good life 

Who thus admires good living 
Above, they say, our flesh is air, 

Our blood celestial ichor : 
Oh, grant ! mid all the changes there, 

They may not change our liquor ! " 

And with this pious wish the holy confessor tumbled under 
the table in an agony of devout drunkenness ; whilst the 
knights, the men-at-arms, and the wicked little pages, rang out 
the last verse with a most melodious and emphatic glee. "I 



THE DEVWS WAGER. 187 

am sorry, fair uncle," hiccoughed Sir Randal, "that in the 
matter of the ave, we could not oblige thee in a more orthodox 
manner ; but the holy father has failed, and there is not an- 
other man in the hall who hath an idea of a prayer." 

"It is my own fault," said Sir Rollo ; "for I hanged the 
last confessor." And he wished his nephew a surly good- 
night as he prepared to quit the room. 

" Au revoir, gentlemen," said the devil Mercurius ; and 
once more fixed his tail round the neck of his disappointed 

companion. 

***** 

The spirit of poor Rollo was sadly cast down ; the devil, on 
the contrary, was in high good-humor. He wagged his tail 
with the most satisfied air in the world, and cut a hundred 
jokes at the expense of his poor associate. On they sped, 
cleaving swiftly through the cold night winds, frightening the 
birqls that were roosting in the woods, and the owls that were 
watching in the towers. 

In the twinkling of an eye, as it is known, devils can fly 
hundreds of miles : so that almost the same beat of the clock 
which left these two in Champagne, found them hovering over 
Paris. They dropped into the court of the Lazarist Convent, 
and winded their way, through passage and cloister, until they 
reached the door of the prior's cell. 

Now the prior, Rollo's brother, was a wicked and malignant 
sorcerer ; his time was spent in conjuring devils and doing 
wicked deeds, instead of fasting, scourging, and singing holy 
psalms : this Mercurius knew; and he, therefore, was fully at 
ease, as to the final result of his wager with poor Sir Roger. 

"You seem to be well acquainted with the road," said the 
knight. 

" I have reason," answered Mercurius, " having, for a long 
period, had the acquaintance of his reverence, your brother ; 
but you have little chance with him." 

"And why?" said Sir Rollo. 

" He is under a bond to my master, never to say a prayer, 
or else his soul and his body are forfeited at once." 

" Why, thou false and traitorous devil ! " said the enraged 
knight • " and thou knewest this when we made our wager 1 " 

" Undoubtedly : do you suppose I would have done so had 
there been any chance of losing ? " 

And with this they arrived at Father Ignatius's door. 

" Thy cursed presence threw a spell on my niece, and 
stopped the tongue of my nephew's chaplain ; I do believe 



l8S THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK-. 

that had I seen either of them alone, my wager had been 
won." 

" Certainly ; therefore I took good care to go with thee : 
however, thou mayest see the prior alone, if thou wilt ; and lo ! 
his door is open. I will stand without for live minutes, when 
it will be time to commence our journey." 

It was the poor Baron's last chance : and he entered his 
brother's room more for the five minutes' respite than from any 
hope of success. 

Father Ignatius, the prior, was absorbed in magic calcula- 
tions : he stood in the middle of a circle of skulls, with no 
garment except his long white beard, which reached to his 
knees ; he was waving a silver rod, and muttering imprecations 
in some horrible tongue. 

But Sir Rollo came forward and interrupted his incantation. 
"I am," said he, "the shade of thy brother Roger de Rollo ; 
and have come, from pure brotherly love, to warn thee of thy 
fate." 

" Whence earnest thou ? " 

" From the abode of the blessed in Paradise," replied Sir 
Roger, who was inspired with a sudden thought ; " it was but 
five minutes ago that the Patron Saint of thy church told me of 
thy danger, and of thy wicked compact with the fiend. ' Go,' 
said he, ' to thy miserable brother, and tell him that there is 
but one way by which he may escape from paying the awful 
forfeit of his bond.' " 

" And how may that be ? " said the prior ; " the false fiend 
hath deceived me ; I have given him my soul, but have received 
no worldly benefit in return. Brother ! dear brother ! how 
may I escape } " 

" I will tell thee. As soon as I heard the voice of blessed 
St. Mary Lazarus " (the worthy Earl had, at a pinch, coined the 
name of a saint), " I left the clouds, where, with other angels, 
I was seated, and sped hither to save thee. 'Thy brother,' 
said the Saint, ' hath but one day more to live, when he will 
become for all eternity the subject of Satan ; if he would 
escape, he must boldly break his bond, by saying an ave.' " 

*' It is the express condition of the agreement," said the 
unhappy monk, " I must say no prayer, or that instant I be- 
come Satan's, body and soul." 

" It is the express condition of the Saint," answered Roger, 
fiercely : " pray, brother, pray, or thou art lost forever." 

So the foolish monk knelt down, and devoutly sung out an 
ave. " Amen ! " said Sir Roger, devoutly. 



MAJDAME SAND AND THE NEW APOcALYPSE. x%^ 

" Amen ! " said Mercurius, as, suddenly coming behind, he 
seized Ignatius by his long beard, and flew up with him to the 
top of the church-steeple. 

The monk roared, and screamed, and swore against his 
brother ; but it was of no avail : Sir Roger smiled kindly on 
him, and said, " Do not fret, brother ; it must have come to 
this in a year or two." 

And he flew alongside of Mercurius to the steeple-top : but 
this time the devil had not his tail round his neck. " I will let 
thee off thy bet," said he to the daemon ; for he could afford, 
now, to be generous. 

" I believe, my lord," said the daemon, politely, " that our 
ways separate here." Sir Roger sailed gayly upwards ; while 
Mercurius having bound the miserable monk faster than eVer, 
he sunk downwards to earth, and perhaps lower. Ignatius was 
heard roaring and screaming as the devil dashed him against 

the iron spikes and buttresses of the church. 

* ^ m nt * 

The moral of this story will be given in the second edition. 



MADAME SAND AND THE NEW APOCALYPSE. 

I don't know an impression more curious than that which 
is formed in a foreigner's mind, who has been absent from this 
place for two or three years, returns to it, and beholds the 
change which has taken place, in the mean time, in French 
fashions and ways of thinking. Two years ago, when I left the 
capital, I left the young gentlemen of France with their hair 
brushed ^'/; /^///^/ in front, and the toes of their boots round; 
now, the boot-toes are pointed, and the hair combed flat, and, 
parted in the middle, falls in ringlets on the fashionable shoul- 
ders ; and, in like manner, with books as with boots, the fashion 
has changed considerably, and it is not a little curious to con- 
trast the old modes with the new. Absurd as was the literary 
dandyism of those days, it is not a whit less absurd now : only 
the manner is changed, and our versatile Frenchmen have 
passed from one caricature to another. 

The revolution may be called a caricature of freedom, as 
the empire was of glory ; and what they borrow from foreigners 
undergoes the same process. They take top-boots and mackiiv 



190 



THE PARIS SKETCH SOOUT, 



1 



toshes irom across the water, and caricature their fashions ; 
they read a little, very little, Shakspeare, and caricature our 
poetry ; and while in David's time art and religion were only 
a caricature of Heathenism, now, on the contrary, these two 
commodities are imported from Germany ; and distorted cari- 
catures originally, are still farther distorted on passing the 
frontier. 

I trust in heaven that German art and religion will take no 
hold in our country (where there is a fund of roast-beef that 
will expel any such humbug in the end); but these sprightly 
Frenchmen have relished the mystical doctrines mightily ; and 
having watched the Germans, with their sanctified looks, and 
quaint imitations of the old times, and mysterious transcen- 
dental talk, are aping many of their fashions ; as well and 
solemnly as they can : not very solemnly, God wot ; for I 
think one should always prepare to grin when a Frenchman 
looks particularly grave, being sure that there is something 
false and ridiculous lurking under the owl-like solemnity. 

When last in Paris, we were in the midst of what was called 
a Catholic reaction. ' Artists talked of faith in poems and pic- 
tures ; churches were built here and there ; old missals were 
copied and purchased ; and numberless portraits of saints, with 
as much gilding about them as ever was used in the fifteenth 
century, appeared in churches, ladies' boudoirs, and picture- 
shops. One or two fashionable preachers rose, and were 
eagerly followed ; the very youth of the schools gave up their 
pipes and billiards for some time, and flocked in crowds to 
Notre Dame, to sit under the feet of Lacordaire. I went to 
visit the church of Notre Dame de Lorette yesterday, which 
was finished in the heat of this Catholic rage, and was not a 
Uttle struck by the similarity of the place to the worship cele- 
brated in it, and the admirable manner in which the architect 
has caused his work to express the public feeling of the mo- 
ment. It is a pretty little bijou of a church : it is supported by 
sham marble pillars ; it has a gaudy ceiling of blue and gold, 
which will look very well for some time ; and is filled with gaudy 
pictures and carvings, in the very pink of the mode. The con- 
gregation did not offer a bad illustration of the present- state of 
Catholic reaction. Two or three stray people were at prayers ; 
there was no service ; a few countrymen and idlers were staring 
about at the pictures ; and the Swiss, the paid guardian of the 
place was comfortably and appropriately asleep on his bench 
at the door. I am inclined to think the famous reaction is 
oyer : the students have taken to their Sunday pipes and billiards 



MADAME SAND AND THE NEW APOCALYPSE, jgi 

again ; and one or two cafes have been established, within the 
last year, that are ten times handsomer than Notre Dame de 
Lorette. 

However, if the immortal Gorres and the German mystics 
have had their day, there is the immortal Goethe, and the Pan- 
theists ; and I incline- to think that the fashion has set ver)' 
strongly in their favor. Voltaire and the Encyclopaedians are 
voted, now, harbares^ and there is no term of reprobation strong 
enough for heartless Humes and Helvetiuses,' who lived but to 
destroy, and wdio only thought to doubt. Wretched as Voltaire's 
sneers and puns are, I think there is something more manly 
and earnest even in them, than in the present muddy French 
transcendentalism. Pantheism is the word now ; one and all 
have begun to eprouver the besoin of a religious sentiment ; and 
we are deluged with a host of gods accordingly. Monsieur de 
Balzac feels himself to be inspired ; Victor Hugo is a god ; 
Madame Sand is a god ; that tawdry man of genius, Jules Janin, 
who writes theatrical reviews for the Debacs^ has divine intima- 
tions ; and there is scarce a beggarly, beardless scribbler of 
poems and prose, but tells you, in his preface, of the saintete of 
the saccrdoce litteraire ; or a dirty student, sucking tobacco and 
beer, and reeling homewdth a grisette from the chaumiere, who 
is not convinced of the necessity of a new " Messianism," and 
will hiccough, to such as will listen, chapters of his own drunken 
Apocalypse. Surely, the negatives of the old days were far 
less dangerous than the assertions of the present ; and you may 
fancy what a religion that must be, which has such high priests. 

There is no reason to trouble the reader with details of the 
lives of many of these prophets and expounders of new revela- 
tions. Madame Sand, for instance, I do not know personally, 
and can only speak of her from report. True or false, the his- 
tory, at any rate, is not very edifying ; and so may be passed 
over : but, as a certain great philosopher told us, in very hum- 
ble and simple words, that we are not to expect to gather grapes 
from thorns, or figs from thistles, we may, at least, demand, in 
all persons assuming the character of moralist or philosopher — 
order, soberness, and regularity of life; for we are apt to dis- 
trust the intellect that we fancy can be sway^ by circumstance 
or passion ; and we know how circumstance and passion will 
sway the intellect : how mortified vanity will form excuses for 
itself ; and how temper turns angrily upon conscience, that re- 
proves it. How often have w^e called our judge our enemy, be- 
cause he has given sentence against us I — How often have we 
ccUed the right wrong, because the right condemns us ! And 



,Q, THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

in the lives of many of the bitter foes of the Chnstian doctrine, 
can we find no personal reason for their hostility ? The men 
in Athens said it was out of regard for religion that they mur- 
dered Socrates ; but we have had time since then, to reconsider 
the verdict j and Socrates' character is pretty pure now, in spite 
of the sentence and the jury of those days. 

The Parisian philosophers will attempt to explain to you 
the changes through which Madame Sand's mind has passed, 
—the initiatory trials, labors, and sufferings which she has had 
to go through, — before she reached her present happy state of 
mental illumination. She teaches her wisdom in parables, riiat 
are, mostly, a couple of volumes long ; and began, first, by an 
eloquent attack on marriage, in the charming novel of " Indiana." 
'* Pity," cried she, "for the poor women who, united to a being 
whose brute force makes him her superior, should venture to 
break the bondage which is imposed on her, and allow her heart 
to be free." 

In support of this claim of pity, she writes two volumes of 
the most exquisite prose. What a tender, suffering creature is 
Indiana ; how little her husband appreciates that gentleness 
which he is crushing by his tyranny and brutal scorn ; how 
natural it is that, in the absence of his sympathy, she, poor 
clinging confiding creature, should seek elsewhere for shelter : 
how cautious should we be, to call criminal — to visit with too 
heavy a censure — an act which is one of the natural impulses 
of a tender heart, that seeks but for a worthy object of love. But 
why attempt to tell the tale of beautiful Indiana ? Madame 
Sand has written it so well, that not the hardest-hearted hus- 
band in Christendom can fail to be touched by her sorrows, 
though he may refuse to listen to her argument. Let us grant, 
for argument's sake, that the laws of marriage, especially the 
French laws of marriage, press very cruelly upon unfortunate 
women. 

But if one wants to have a question of this, or any nature, 
honestly argued, it is better, surely, to apply to an indifferent 
person for an umpire. For instance, the stealing of pocket- 
handkerchiefs or snuff-boxes may or may not be vicious ; but if 
we, who have not tlie wit, or will not take the trouble to decide 
the question ourselves, want to hear the real rights of the mat- 
ter, we should not, surely, apply to a pickpocket to know what 
he thought on the point. It might naturally be presumed* 
that he would be rather a prejudiced person — particularly 
as his reasoning, if successful, might get him out of jail. 
This is a homely illustration, no doubt ; all we would urge by 



MADAME SAND AND THE NEW APOCALYPSE. 193 

it is, that Madame Sand having, according to the French newspa- 
pers, had a stern husband, and also having, according to the 
newspapers, sought " sympathy " elsewhere, her arguments may 
be considered to be somewhat partial, and received with some 
little caution. 

And tell us who have been the social reformers ? — the 
haters, that is, of the present system, according to which we 
live, love, marry, have children, educate them, and endow 
them — arc they pure themselves ? I do believe not one ; and 
directly a man begins to quarrel with the world and its ways, 
and to lift up, as he calls it, the voice of his despair, and 
preach passionately to mankind about this tyranny of faith, 
customs, laws ; if we examine what the personal character of 
the preacher is, we begin pretty clearly to understand the value of 
the doctrine. Any one can see why Rousseau should be such 
a whimpering reformer, and Byron such a free and easy misan- 
thropist, and why our accomplished Madame Sand, w4io has a 
genius and eloquence inferior to neither, should take the 
present condition of mankind (French-kind) so much to heart, 
and labor so hotly to set it right. 

After '' Indiana" (which, we presume, contains the lady's 
notions upon wives and husbands) came " Valentine," which 
may be said to exhibit her doctrine, in regard of young 
men and maidens, to whom the author would accord, as 
we fancy, the same tender license. " Valentine " was followed 
by " Lelia," a wonderful book indeed, georgeous in eloquence, 
and rich in magnificent poetry : a regular topsyturvyfication of 
morality, a thieves' and prostitutes' apoth-eosis. This book has 
received some late enlargements and emendations by the 
writer ; it contains her notions on morals, which, as we have 
said, are so peculiar, that alas ! they can only be mentioned 
here, not particularized : but of " Spiridion " we may write a 
few pages, as it is her religious manifesto. 

In this work, the lady asserts her pantheistical doctrine, 
and openly attacks the received Christian creed. She declares • 
it to be useless now, and unfitted to the exigencies and the 
degree of culture of the actual world ; and though it would be 
hardly worth while to combat her opinions in due form, it is, 
at least, worth while to notice them, not merely from the ex- 
traordinary eloquence and genius of the woman herself, but be- 
cause they express the opinions of a great number of people 
besides : for she not only produces her own thoughts, but im- 
itates those of others very eagerly ; and one finds in her writ- 
ings so much similarity with others, or, in others, so much re- 

I'' 



I g 4 T//£ FA RIS SKE TCH B O OK. 

semblance to her, that the book before us may pass for the 
expression of the sentiments of a certain French party. 

" Dieu est mort," says another writer of the same class, 
and of great genius too. — " Dieu est mort," writes Mr. Henry 
Heine, speaking of the Christian God ; and he adds, in a 
daring figure of speech, — " N'entendez vous pas sonner la 
Clochette ? — on porte les sacremens a un Dieu qui se meurt ! " 
Another of the pantheist poetical philosophers, Mr. Edgar 
Quinet, has a poem, in which Christ and the Virgin Mary are 
made to die similarly, and the former is classed with Prome- 
theus. This book of " Spiridion " is a continuation of the 
theme, and perhaps you will listen to some of the author's 
expositions of it. 

It must be confessed that the controversialists of the 
present day have an eminent advantage over their predecessors 
in the days of folios ; it required some learning then to write a 
book, and some time, at least — for the very labor of writing out 
a thousand such vast pages would demand a considerable 
period. But now, in the age of duodecimos, the system is 
reformed altogether : a male or female controversialist draws 
upon his imagination, and not his learning ; makes a story 
instead of an argument, and, in the course of 150 pages (where 
the preacher has it all his own way) will prove or disprove you 
anything. And, to our shame be it said, we Protestants have 
set the example of this kind of proselytism — those detestable 
mixtures of truth, lies, false sentiment, false reasoning, bad 
grammar, correct and genuine philanthropy and piety — I mean 
our religious tracts, which any woman or man, be he ever so 
silly, can take upon himself to write, and sell for a penny, as if 
religious instruction were the easiest thing in the world. We, 
I say, have set the example in this kind of composition, and 
all the sects of the earth will, doubtless, speedily follow it. I 
can point you out blasphemies in famous pious tracts that are 
as dreadful as those above mentioned ; but this is no place for 
such discussions, and we had better return to Madame Sand. 
As Mrs. Sherwood expounds, by means of many touching his- 
tories and anecdotes of little boys and girls, her notions of 
church history, church catechism, church doctrine ; — as the 
author of " Father Clement, a Roman Catholic Story," demol- 
ishes the stately structure of eighteen centuries, the mighty 
and beautiful Roman Catholic faith, in whose bosom repose so 
many saints and sages, — by the means of a three-and-sixpenny 
duodecimo volume, which tumbles over the vast fabric, as 
David's pebble stone did Goliath j — as, again, the Roman 



MADAME SAND AND THE NEW APOCALYPSE. 195 

Catholic author of " Geraldine '' falls foul of Luther and 
Calvin, and drowns the awful echoes of their tremendous 
protest by the sounds of her little half-crown trumpet : in like 
manner, by means of pretty sentimental tales, and cheap apo- 
logues, Mrs. Sand proclaims her truth — that we need a new 
Messiah, and that the Christian religion is no more ! O awful, 
awful name of God ! Light unbearable ! Mystery unfathom- 
able ! Vastness immeasurable ! — Who are these who come 
forward to explain the mystery, and gaze unblinking into the 
depths of the light, and measure the immeasurable vastness to 
a hair ? O name, that God's people of old did fear to utter ! O 
light, that God's prophet would have perished had he seen ! 
Who are these that are now^ so familiar with it ? — Women, 
truly ; for the most part weak women — weak in intellect, weak 
mayhap in spelling and grammar, but marvellously strong in 
faith : — women, who step down to the people wdth stately step 
and voice of authority, and deliver their twopenny tablets, as if 
there were some Divine authority for the wretched nonsense 
recorded there ! 

With regard to the spelling and grammar, our Parisian 
Pythoness stands, in the goodly followship, remarkable. Her 
style is a noble, and, as far as a foreigner can judge, a strange 
tongue, beautifully rich and pure. She has a very exuberant 
imagination, and, with it, a very chaste style of expression. 
She never scarcely indulges in declamation, as other modern 
prophets do, and yet her sentences are exquisitely melodious 
and full. She seldom runs a thought to death (after the manner 
of some prophets, who, when they catch a little one, toy with 
it until they kill it), but she leaves you at the end of one of her 
brief, rich, melancholy sentences, with plenty of food for future 
cogitation. I can't express to you the charm of them ; they 
seem to me like the sound of country bells — provoking I don't 
know what vein of musing and meditation, and falling sweetly 
and sadly on the ear. 

This wonderful power of language must have been felt by 
most people who read Madame Sand's first books, '' Valentine " 
and " Indiana : " in " Spiridion " it is greater, I think, than ever • 
and for those who are not afraid of the matter of the novel, the 
manner will be found most delightful. The author's intention, 
I presume, is to describe, in a parable, her notions of the 
downfall of the Catholic church; and, indeed, of the whole 
Christian scheme : she places her hero in a monastery in Italy, 
where, among the characters about him, and the events which 
occur, the particular tenets of Madame Dudevant's doctrine 



I g 6 TJIE FA RIS SKE TCH B 00 K. 

are not inaptly laid down. Innocent, faithful, tender-hearted, 
a young monk, by name Angel, finds himself, when he has 
pronounced his vows, an object of aversion and hatred to the 
godly men whose lives he so much respects, and whose love 
he would make any sacrifice to win. After enduring much, he 
flings himself at the feet of his confessor, and begs for his 
sympathy and counsel ; but the confessor spurns him away, 
and accuses him, fiercely, of some unknown and terrible crime 
— bids him never return to the confessional until contrition has 
touched his heart, and the stains which sully his spirit are, by 
sincere repentance, washed away. 

" Thus speaking," says Angel, " Father Hegesippus tore 
away his robe, which I was holding in my supplicating hands. 
In a sort of wildness I still grasped it tighter ; he pushed me 
fiercely from him, and I fell with my face towards the ground. 
He quitted me, closing violently after him the door of the 
sacristy, in which this scene had passed. I was left alone in 
the darkness. Either from the violence of my fall, or the ex- 
cess of my grief, a vein had burst in my throat, and a haemor- 
rhage ensued. I had not the force to rise ; I felt my senses 
rapidly sinking, and, presently, I lay stretched on the pave- 
ment, unconscious, and bathed in my blood." 

[Now the wonderful part of the story begins.] 

" I know not how much time I passed in this way. As T 
came to myself I felt an agreeable coolness. It seemed as if 
some harmonious air was playing round about me, stirring 
gently in my hair, and drying the drops of perspiration on my 
brow. It seemed to approach, and then again to withdraw, 
breathing now softly and sweetly in the distance, and now re- 
turning, as if to give me strength and courage to rise. 

" I would not, however, do so as yet ; for I felt myself, as I 
lay, under the influence of a pleasure quite new to me ; and 
listened, in a kind of peaceful aberration, to the gentle mur- 
murs of the summer wind, as it breathed on me through the 
closed window-blinds above me. Then I fancied I heard- a 
voice that spoke to me from the end of the sacristy : it whis- 
pered so low that I could not catch the words. I rejnained 
motionless, and gave it my whole attention. At last I heard, 
distinctly, the following sentence : — ' Spirit of Truth, raise up 
these victims of ignorance and iinposture.'' ' Father Hegesippus,' 
said I, in a weak voice, ' is that you who are returning to me ? ' 
But no one answered. I lifted myself on my hands and knees, 
I listened again, but I heard nothing. I got up completely, 
and looked about me : I had fallen so near to the only door in 



MADAME SAND AND THE NEW APOCALYPSE. 197 

this little room, that none, after the departure of the confessor, 
could have entered it without passing over me ; besides, the 
door was shut, and only opened from the inside by a strong 
lock of the ancient shape. I touched it, and assured myself 
that it was closed. I was seized with terror, and, for some 
moments, did not dare to move. Leaning against the door, I 
looked round, and endeavored to see into the gloom in which 
the angles of the room were enveloped. A pale light, which 
came from an upper window, half closed, was seen to be trem- 
bling in the midst of the apartment. The wind beat the shut- 
ter to and fro, and enlarged or diminished the space through 
which the light issued. The objects which were in this half 
light — the praying-desk, surmounted by its skull — a few books 
lying on the benches — a surplice hanging against the wall — 
seemed to move with the shadow of the foliage that the air agi- 
tated behind the window. When I thought I was alone, I felt 
ashamed of my former timidity ; I made the sign of the cross, 
and was about to move forward in order to open the shutter 
altogether, but a deep sigh came from the praying-desk, and 
kept me nailed to my place. And yet I saw the desk distinctly 
enough to be sure that no person was near it. Then I had an 
idea which gave me courage. Some person, I thought, is be- 
hind the shutter, and has been saying his prayers outside with- 
out thinking of me. But who would be so bold as to express 
such wishes and utter such a prayer as I had just heard t 

" Curiosity, the only passion and amusement permitted in a 
cloister, now entirely possessed me, and I advanced towards 
the window. But I had not made a step when a black shadow, 
as it seemed to me, detaching itself from the praying-desk, 
traversed the room, directing itself towards the window, and 
passed swiftly by me. The movement was so rapid that I had 
not time to avoid what seemed a body advancing towards me, 
and my fright was so great, that I thought I should faint a 
second time. But I felt nothing, and, as if the shadow had 
passed through me, I saw it suddenly disappear to my left. 

" I rushed to the window, I pushed back the blind with 
precipitation, and looked round the sacristy : I was there, en- 
tirely alone. I looked into the garden — it was deserted, and 
the mid-day wind was wandering among the flowers. I took 
courage, I examined all the corners of the room ; I looked be- 
hind the praying-desk, which was very large, and I shook all the 
sacerdotal vestments which were hanging on the walls ; every- 
thing was in its natural condition, and could give me no expla- 
nation of what had just occurred. The sight of all the blood I 



198 



THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 



had lost led me to fancy that my brain had, probably, been weak- 
ened by the haemorrhage, and that I had been a prey to some 
delusion. I retired to my cell, and remained shut up there 
until the next day." 

I don't know whether the reader has been as much struck 
with the above mysterious scene as the writer has ; but the 
fancy of it strikes me as very fine ; and the natural siipernatural- 
ness is kept up in the best style. The shutter swaying to and 
fro, the fitful light appear'mg over the furniture of the room, and 
giving it an air of strange motion — the awful shadow which 
passed through the body of the timid young novice — are surely 
very finely painted. *' I rushed to the shutter, and flung it 
back : there was no one in the sacristy. I looked into the 
garden ; it was deserted, and the mid-day wind was roaming 
among the flowers." The dreariness is wonderfully described : 
only the poor pale boy looking eagerly out from the window 
of the sacristy, and the hot mid-day wind walking in the soli- 
tary garden.' How skilfully is each of these little strokes 
dashed in, and how well do all together combine to make a 
picture ! But we must have a little more about Spiridion's 

wonderful visitant. 

* * # * # 

" As I entered into the garden, I stepped a little on one 
side, to make way for a person whom I saw before me. He^ 
was a young man of surprising beauty, and attired in a foreign 
costume. Although dressed in the large black robe which the 
superiors of our order wear, he had, underneath, a short jacket 
of fine cloth, fastened round the waist by a leathern belt, and a 
buckle of silver, after the manner of the old German students. 
Like them, he wore, instead of the sandals of our monks, short 
tight boots ; and over the collar of his shirt, which fell on his 
shoulders, and was as white as snow, hung, in rich golden 
curls, the most beautiful hair I ever saw. He Was tall, and 
his elegant posture seemed to reveal to me that he was in the 
habit of commanding. With much respect, and yet uncertain, 
I half saluted him. He did not return my salute ; but he 
smiled on me with so benevolent an air, and at the same time, 
his eyes severe and blue, looked towards me with an expression 
of such compassionate tenderness, that his features have never 
since then passed away from my recollection. I stopped, 
hoping he would speak to me, and persuading myself, from the 
majesty of his aspect, that he had the power to -protect me ; 
but the monk, who was walking behind me, and who did not 
seem to remark him in the least, forced him brutally to step 



MADAME SAND AND THE NEW APOCALYPSE. j 



99 



aside from the walk, and pushed me so rudely as almost to 
cause me to fall. Not wishing to engage in a quarrel with this 
coarse monk, I moved away ; but, after havi)^ taken a few 
steps in the gatden, I looked back, and saw the unknown still 
gazing on me with looks of the tenderest solicitude. The sun 
shone full upon him, and made his hair look radiant. He 
sighed, and lifted his fine eyes to heaven, as if to invoke its 
justice in my favor, and to call it to bear witness to my misery ; 
he turned slowly towards the sanctuary, entered into the quire, 
and w^as lost, presently, in the shade. I longed to return, spite 
of the monk, to follow this noble stranger, and tell him my 
afflictions ; but who was he, that I imagined he would listen to 
them, and cause them to cease ? I felt, even while his softness 
drew me towards him, that he still inspired me with a kind of 
fear ; for I saw in his physiognomy as much austerity as sweet- 
ness." 

* # * # * 

Who was he ? — we shall see that. He was somebody very 
mysterious indeed \ but our author has taken care, after the 
manner of her sex, to make a very pretty fellow of him, and to 

dress him in the most becoming costumes possible. 

* # j^ * * 

The individual in tight boots and a rolling collar, with the 
copious golden locks, and the solemn blue eyes, who had just 
gazed on Spiridion, and inspired him with such a feeling of 
tender awe, is a much more important personage than the 
reader might suppose at first sight. This beautiful, mysterious, 
dandy ghost, whose costume, with a true woman's coquetry, 
Madame Dudevant has so rejoiced to describe— is her religious 
type, a mystical representation of Faith struggling up towards 
Truth, through superstition, doubt, fear, reason, — in tight in- 
expressibles, with " a belt such as is worn by the old German 
students." You will pardon me for treating such an awful 
person as this somewhat lightly ; but there is always, I think, 
such a dash of the ridiculous in the French sublime, that the 
critic should try and do justice to both, or he may fail in giving 
a fair account of either. This character of Hebronius, the 
type of Mrs. Sand's convictions — if convictions they may be 
called — or, at least, the allegory under which her doubts are 
represented, is, in parts, very finely drawn ; contains many 
passages of truth, very deep and touching, by the side of others 
so entirely absurd and unreasonable, that the reader's feelings 
are continually swaying between admiration and something 
very like contenrpt — always in a kind of wonder at the strange 
mUvure before him. But let us hear Madame Sand : — 



200 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

" Peter Hebronius," says our author, " was not originally 
so named. His real name was Samuel. He was a Jew, and 
born in a little tillage in the neighborhood of Innspriick. His 
family, which possessed a considerable fortune, Teft him, in his 
early youth, completely free to his own pursuits. From in- 
fancy he had shown that these were serious. He loved to be 
alone ; and passed his days, and sometimes his nights, wander- 
ing among the mountains and valleys in the neighborhood of 
his birthplace. He would often sit by the brink of torrents, 
listening to the voice of their waters, and endeavoring to pene- 
trate the meaning which Nature had hidden in those sounds. As 
he advanced in years, his inquiries became more curious and 
more grave. It was necessary that he should receive a solid edu- 
cation and his parents sent him to study in the German univer- 
sities. Luther had been dead only a century, and his words and 
his memory still lived in the enthusiasm of his disciples. The 
new faith was strengthening the conquests it had made ; the Re- 
formers were as ardent as in the first days, but their ardor was 
more enlightened and more measured. Proselytism was still car- 
ried on with zeal, and new converts were made every day. In 
listening to the morality and to the dogmas which Lutheranism 
had taken from Catholicism, Samuel was filled with admiration. 
His bold and sincere spirit instantly compared the doctrines 
which were now submitted to him, with those in the belief of 
which he had been bred ; and, enlightened by the comparison, 
was not slow to acknowledge the inferiority of Judaism. 
He said to himself, that a religion made for a single peo- 
ple, to the exclusion of all others, — which only offered a 
barbarous justice for rule of conduct, — which neither ren- 
dered the present intelligible nor satisfactory, and left the 
future uncertain, — could not be that of noble souls and 
lofty intellects ; and that he could not be the God of truth who 
had dictated, in the midst of thunder, his vacillating will, and had 
called to the performance of his narrow wishes the slaves of a 
vulgar terror. Always conversant with himself, Samuel, who had 
spoken what he thought, now performed what he had spoken ; 
and, a year after his arrival in Germany, solemnly abjured 
Judaism, and entered into the bosom of the reformed Church. 
As he did not wish to do things by halves, and desired as much 
as was in him to put off the old man and lead a new life, he 
changed his name of Samuel to that of Peter. Some time 
passed, during which he strengthened and instructed himself in 
his new religion. Very soon he arrived at the point of search- 
ing for objections to refute, and adversaries to overthrow. B0I4 



MADAME SAND AND THE NEW APOCALYPSE. 201 

and enterprising, he went at once to the strongest, and Bossuet 
was the first CathoHc author that he set himself to read. He 
commenced with a kind of disdain ; beUeving that the faith 
whic'.i he had just embraced contained the pure truth, he de- 
spised all the attacks which could be made against it, and 
laughed already at the irresistible arguments which he was to 
find in the works of the Eagle of Meaux. But his mistrust and 
irony soon gave place to wonder first, and then to admiration : 
he thought that the cause pleaded by such an advocate must, 
at least, be respectable ; and, by a natural transition, came to 
think that great geniuses would only devote themselves to that 
which was great. He then studied Catholicism with the same 
ardor and impartiality which he had bestowed on Lutheranism. 
He went into France to gain instruction from the professors 
of the Mother Church, as he had from the Doctors of the re- 
formed creed in Germany. He saw Arnauld Fenelon, that 
second Gregory of Nazianzen, and Bossuet himself. Guided 
by these masters, whose virtues made him appreciate their 
talents the more, he rapidly penetrated to the depth of the 
Catholic doctrine and morality. ' He found, in this religion, 
all that had for him constituted the grandeur and beauty of 
Protestantism, — the dogmas of" the Unity and Eternity of God, 
which the two religions had borrowed from Judaism ; and, what 
seemed the natural consequence of the last doctrine- — a doctrine, 
however, to which the Jews had not arrived — the doctrine of 
the immortality of the soul ; free will in this life ; in the next, rec- 
ompense for the good, and punishment for the evil. He found, 
more pure, perhaps, and more elevated in Catholicism than in 
Protestantism, that sublime morality which preaches equality 
to man, fraternity, loye, charity, renouncement of self, devotion 
to your neighbor : Catholicism, in a word, seemed to possess 
that vast formula, and that vigorous unity, which Lutheranism 
wanted. The latter had, indeed, in its favor, the liberty of 
inquiry, which is also a want of the human mind ; and had pro- 
claimed the authority of individual reason : but it had so lost 
that which is the necessary basis and vital condition of all re- 
vealed religion — the principle of infallibility ; because nothing 
can live except in virtue of the laws that presided at its birth ; 
and, in consequence, one revelation cannot be continued and 
confirmed without another. Now infallibility is nothing but 
revelation continued by God, or the Word, in the person of his 
vicars. * * * # * 

" At last, after much reflection, Hebronius acknowledged 
himself entirely and sincerely convinced, and received baptism 



202 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOJC. 

from the hands of Bossuet. He added the name of Spiridion 
to that of Peter, to signify that he had been twice enlightened 
by the Spirit. Resolved thenceforward to consecrate his life 
to the worship of the new God who had called him to Him, and 
to the study of His doctrines, he passed into Italy, and, with 
the aid of a large fortune, which one of his uncles, a Catholic 
like himself, had left to him, he built this convent, where we 
now are." 

* * * * # 

A friend of mine, who has just come from Italy, says that he 

has there left Messrs. Sp r, P 1, and W. Dr d, who 

were the lights of the great church in Newman Street, who were 
themselves apostles, and declared and believed that every word 
of nonsense which fell from their lips was a direct spiritual 
intervention. These gentlemen have become Puseyites already, 
and are, my friend states, in the high way to Catholicism. 
Madame Sand herself was a Catholic some time since : having 

been converted to that faith along with M. N , of the 

Academy of Music ; Mr. L , the pianoforte player ; and 

one or two other chosen individuals, by the famous Abbe de la 

M . Abbe de la M (so told me, in the Diligence, a 

priest, who read his breviary and gossiped alternately very curi- 
ously and pleasantly) is himself an dine perdue : the man spoke 
of his brother clergyman with actual horror ; and it certainly 
appears that the Abbe's works of conversion have not pros- 
pered ; for Madame Sand, having brought her hero (and herself, 
as we may presume) to the point of Catholicism, proceeds 
directly to dispose of that as she has done of Judaism and 
Protestantism, and will not leave, of the whole fabric of Chris- 
tianity, a single stone standing. 

I think the fate of our English Newman Street apostles, and 

of M. de la M , the mad priest, and his congregation of 

mad converts, should be a warning to such of us as are inclined 
to dabble in religious speculations ; for, in them, as in all others, 
our flighty brains soon lose themselves, and we find our reason 
speedily lying prostrated at the mercy of our passions ; and I 
think that Madame Sand's novel of Spiridion may do a vast 
deal of good, and bears a good moral with it ; though not such 
an one, perhaps, as our fair philosopher intended. For any- 
thing he learned, Samuel-Peter-Spiridion-Hebronius might have 
remained a Jew from the beginning to the end. Wherefore be 
in such a hurry to set up new faiths ? Wherefore, Madame 
Sand, try and be so preternaturally wise ? Wherefore be so 
eager to jump out of one religion, for the purpose of jumping 



MADAME SAND AND THE NEW APOCALYPSE. 203 

into another ? See what good this philosophical friskiness has 
done you, and on what sort of ground you are come at last. 
You are so wonderfully sagacious, that you flounder in mud at 
every step ; so amazingly clear-sighted, that your eyes cannot 
see an inch before you, having put out, with that extinguishing 
genius of. yours, every one of the lights that are sufficient for 
the conduct of common men. And for what ? Let our friend 
Spiridion speak for himself. After setting up this convent, and 
filling it with monks, who entertain an immense respect for his 
wealth and genius, Father Hebronius, unanimously elected 
prior, gives himself up to further studies, and leaves his monks 
to themselves. Industrious and sober as they were, originally, 
they grow quickly intemperate and idle ; and Hebronius, who 
does not appear among his flock until he has freed himself of 
the Catholic religion, as he has of the Jewish and the Protest- 
ant, sees, with dismay, the evil condition of his disciples, and 
regrets, too late, the precipitancy by which he renounced, then 
and forever, Christianity. " But, as he had no new religion 
to adopt in its place, and as, grown more prudent and calm, 
he did not wish to accuse himself unnecessarily, once more, of 
inconstancy and apostasy, he still maintained all the exterior 
forms of the worship which inwardly he had abjured. But it 
was not enough for him to have quitted error, it was neces- 
sary to discover truth. But Hebronius had well looked round 
to discover it ; he could not find anything that resembled it. 
Then commenced for him a series of sufferings, unknown and 
terrible. Placed face to face with doubt, this sincere and reli- 
gious spirit was frightened at its own solitude ; and as it had 
no other desire or aim on earth than truth, and nothing else 
here below interested it, he lived absorbed in his own sad con- 
templations, looked ceaselessly into the vague that surrounded 
him like an ocean without bounds, and seeing the horizon 
retreat and retreat as ever he wished to near it. Lost in this 
immense uncertainty, he felt as if attacked by vertigo, and his 
thoughts whirled within his brain. Then, fatigued with his 
vain toils and hopeless endeavors, he would sink down de- 
pressed, unmanned, life-wearied, only living in the sensation of 
that silent grief which he felt and could not comprehend." 

It is a pity that this hapless Spiridion, so eager in his pass 
age from one' creed to another, and so loud in his profession of 
the truth, wherever he fancied that he had found it, had not 
waited a little, before he avowed himself either Catholic or 
Protestant, and implicated others in errors and follies which 
might, at least, have been confined to his own bosom, and there 



204 ^^-^ PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

have Iain comparatively harmless. In what a pretty state, for 
instance, will Messrs. Dr d and P 1 have left their New- 
man Street congregation, who are still plunged in their old 
superstitions, from which their spiritual pastors and masteis 
have been set free ! In what a state, too, do Mrs. Sand and 
her brother and sister philosophers. Templars, Saint Simonians, 
Fourierites, Lerouxites, or whatever the sect may be, leave the 
unfortunate people who have listened to their doctrines, and 
who have not the opportunity, or the fiery versatility of belief, 
which carries their teachers from one creed to another, leaving 
only exploded lies and useless recantations behind them ! I 
wish the State would make a law that one individual should not 
be allowed to preach more than one doctrine in his life ; or, at 
any rate, should be soundly corrected for every change of creed. 
How many charlatans would have been silenced, — how much 
conceit would have been kept within bounds, — how many 
fools, who are dazzled by fine sentences, and made drunk by 
declamation, would have remained quiet and sober, in that 
quiet and sober way of faith which their fathers held before 
them. However, the reader will be glad to learn that, after all 
his doubts and sorrows, Spiridion does discover the truth {the 
truth, what a wise Spiridion !), and some discretion M'ith it ; for, 
having found among his monks, who are dissolute, superstitious 
— and all hate him — one only being, Fulgentius, who is loving, 
candid, and pious, he says to him, — " If you were like myself, 
if the first want of your nature were, like mine, to know, I 
would, without hesitation, lay bare to you my entire thoughts. 
I would make you drink the cup of truth, which I myself have 
filled with so many tears, at the risk of intoxicating you with 
the draught. But it is not so, alas ! you are made to love 
rather than to know, and your heart is stronger than your in- 
tellect. You are attached to Catholicism, — I believe so, at 
least, — by bonds of sentiment which you could not break with- 
out pain, and which, if you were to break, the truth which I 
could lay bare to you in return would not repay you for what 
you had sacrificed. Instead of exalting, it would crush you, 
very likely. It is a food too strong for ordinary men, and which, 
when it does not revivify, smothers. I will not, then, reveal to 
you this doctrine, which is the triumph of my life, and the con- 
solation of my last days : because it might, perhaps, be for you 
only a cause of mournmg and despair. * * * Of all the 
works which my long studies have produced, there is one alone 
which I have not given to the flames ; for it alone is complete. 
In that you will find me entire, and there lies the truth. 



MADAME SAND AND THE NEW APOCALYPSE. 205 

And, as the sage has said you must not bury your treasures in 
a well, I will not confide mine to the brutal stupidity of these 
monks. But as this volume should only pass into hands worthy 
to touch it, and be laid open for eyes that are capable of 
comprehending its mysteries, I shall exact from the reader one 
condition, which, at the same time, shall be a proof : I shall 
carry it with me to the tomb, in order that he who one day 
shall read it, may have courage enough to brave the vain terrors 
of the grave, in searching for it amid the dust of my sepulchre. 
As soon as I am dead, therefore, place this writing on my 
breast. * * * Ah ! when the time comes for reading it, I 
think my withered heart will spring up again, as the frozen grass 
at the return of the sun, and that, from the midst of its infinite 
transformations, my spirit will enter into immediate communi- 
cation with thine ! " 

* * # * # 

Does not the reader long to be at this precious manuscript, 
which contains the truth ; and ought he not to be very much 
obliged to Mrs. Sand, for being so good as to print it for him ? 
We leave all the story aside : how Fulgentius had not the spirit 
to read the manuscript, but left the secret to Alexis ; how 
Alexis, a stern old philosophical unbelieving monk as ever was, 
tried in vain to lift up the gravestone, but was taken with fever, 
and obliged to forego the discovery ; and how, finally, Angel, 
his disciple, a youth amiable and innocent as his name, was the 
destined person who brought the long-buried treasure to light. 
Trembling and delighted, the pair read this tremendous manu- 
script OF Spiridion. 

Will it be believed, that of all the dull, vague, windy docu- 
ments that mortal ever set eyes on, this is the dullest? If this 
be absolute truth, a quoi hon search for it, since we have long, 
long had the jewel in our possession, or since, at least, it has 
been held up as such by every sham philosopher who has had 
a mind to pass off his wares on the public ? Hear Spiridion : — 

" How much have I wept, how much have I suffered, how 
much have I prayed, how much have I labored, before I under- 
stood the cause ai.d the aim of my passage on this earth ! 
After many incertitudes, after much remorse, after many scru- 
ples, I have comp7'ehended that I was a martyr! — But why my 
martyrdom ? said I ; what crime did I commit before I was born, 
thus to be condemned to labor and groaning, from the hour 
when I first saw the day up to that when \ am about to enter 
into the night of the tomb ? 

" At last, by dint of imploring God — by dint of inquiry into 



2o6 T^^E PARIS SKETCH BOOK, 

the history of man, a ray of the truth has descended on my 
brow, and the shadows of the past have melted from before my 
eyes. I have Ufted a corner of the curtain : I have seen enough 
to know that my life, like that of the rest of the human race, 
has been a series of necessary errors, yet, to speak more cor- 
rectly, of incomplete truths, conducting, more or less slowly and 
directly, to absolute truth and ideal perfection. But when will 
they rise on the face of the earth — when will they issue from 
the bosom of the Divinity — those generations who shall salute 
the august countenance of Truth, and proclaim the reign of the 
ideal on earth ? I see well how humanity marches, but I neither 
can see its cradle nor its apotheosis. Man seems to me a 
transitory race, between the beast and the angel ; but I know 
how many centuries have been required, that he might pass 
from the state of bride to the state of 'man, and I cannot tell hotv 
many ages are fiecessary that he may pass from the state of jnan to 
the state of angel / 

" Yet I hope, and I feel within me, at the approach of death, 
that which warns me that great destinies await humanity. In 
this life all is over for me. Much have I striven, to advance 
but little : I have labored without ceasing, and have done 
almost nothing. Yet, after pains immeasurable, I die content, 
for I know that I have done all I could, and am sure that the 
little I have done will not be lost. 

" What, then, have I done ? this wilt thou demand of me, 
man of a future age, who will seek for truth in the testaments 
of the past. Thou who wilt be no more Catholic — no more 
Christian, thou wilt ask of the poor monk, lying in the dust, an 
account of his life and death. Thou wouldst know wherefore 
were his vows, why his austerities, his labors, his retreat, his 
prayers ? 

" You who turn back to me, in order that I may guide you 
on your road, and that you may arrive more quickly at the goal 
which it has not been my lot to attain, pause, yet, for a moment, 
and look upon the past history of humanity. You will see that 
its fate has been ever to choose between the least of two evils, 
and ever to commit great faults in order to avoid others still 
greater. You will see * * * on one side, the heathen 
mythology, that debased the spirit, in its efforts to deify the 
flesh ; on the other, the austere Christian principle, that debased 
the flesh too much, in order to raise the worship of the spirit. 
You will see, afterwards, how the religion of Christ embodies 
itself in a church, and raises itself a generous democratic power 
against the tyranny of princes. Later still, you will see how 



MADAME SAND AND THE NEW APOCALYPSE. 107 

that power has attained its end, and passed beyond it. You 
will see it, having chained and conquered princes, league itself 
with them, in order to oppress the people, and seize on tempo- 
ral power. Schism, then, raises up against it the standard of 
revolt, and preaches the bold and legitimate principle of liberty 
of conscience : but, also, you will see how this liberty of con- 
science brings religious anarchy in its train ; or, worse still, 
religious indifference and disgust. And if your soul, shattered 
in the tempestuous changes which you behold humanity under- 
going, would strike out for itself a passage through the rocks, 
amidst which, like a frail bark, lies tossing trembling truth, you 
will be embarrassed to choose between the new philosophers — 
who, in preaching tolerance, destroy religious and social unity 
— and the last Christians, who, to preserve society, that is, re- 
ligion and philosophy, are obliged to brave the principle of 
toleration. Man of truth ! to whom I address, at once, my 
instruction and my justification, at the time when you shall live, 
the science of truth no doubt will have advanced a step. Think, 
then, of all your fathers have suffered, as, bending beneath the 
weight of their ignorance and uncertainty, they have traversed 
the desert across which, with so much pain, they have conducted 
thee ! And if the pride of thy young learning shall make thee 
contemplate the petty strifes in which our life has been con- 
sumed, pause and tremble, as you think of that which is still 
unknown to yourself, and of the judgment that your descend- 
ants will pass on you. Think of this, and learn to respect all 
those who, seeking their way in all sincerity, have wandered 
from the path, frightened by the storm, and sorely tried by the 
severe hand of the All-Powerful. Think of this, and prostrate 
yourself; for all these, even the most mistaken among them, 
are saints and martyrs. 

" Without their conquests and their defeats, thou wert in 
darkness still. Yes, their failures, their errors even, have a 
right to your respect ; for man is weak. * *■ * Weep, then, 
for us obscure toilers — unknown victims, who by our mortal 
sufferings and unheard-of labors, have prepared the way before 
you. Pity me, who having passionately loved justice, and per- 
severingly sought for truth, only opened my eyes to shut them 
again forever, and saw that I had been in vain endeavoring to 
support a ruin, to take refuge in a vault of which the founda- 
tions were worn away." * * * 

The rest of the book of Spiridion is made up of a history 
of the rise, progress, and (what our philosopher is pleased to 
ciU) decay of Christianity — of an assertion, that the " doctrine 



2o8 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

of Christ is incomplete \ " that " Christ may, nevertheless, take 
his place in the Pantheon of divine men ! " and of a long, dis- 
gusting, absurd, and impious vision, in which the Saviour, 
Moses, David, and Elijah are represented, and in which Christ 
is made to say — ". We are all Messiahs^ when we wish to bring 
the reign of truth upon earth ; we are all Christs when we 
suffer for it ! " 

And this is the ultimatum, the supreme secret, the absolute 
truth ! and it has been published by Mrs. Sand, for so many 
napoleons per sheet, in the Reviie des Deux Mo7ides ; and the 
Deux Mondes are to abide by it for the future. After having 
attained it, are we a whit wiser ? " Man is between an angel 
and a beast : I don't know how long it is since he was a 
brute — I can't say how long it will be before he is an angel." 
Think of people living by their wits, and living by such a wit as 
this ! Think of the state of mental debauch and disease which 
must have been passed through, ere such words could be writ- 
ten, and could be popular ! 

When a man leaves our dismal, smoky London atmosphere, 
and breathes, instead of coal-smoke and yellow fog, this bright, 
clear, French air, he is quite intoxicated by it at first, and feels 
a glow in his blood, and a joy in his spirits, which scarcely 
thrice a year, and then only at a distance from London, he can 
attain in England. Is the intoxication, I wonder, permanent 
among the natives ? and may we not account for the ten thou- 
sand frantic freaks of these people by the peculiar influence of 
French air and sun ? The philosophers are from night to 
morning drunk, the politicians are drunk, the literary men 
reel and stagger from one absurdity to another, and how shall 
we understand their vagaries ? Let us suppose, charitably, that 
Madame Sand had inhaled a more than ordinary -quantity of 
this laughing gas when she wrote for us this precious manu- 
script of Spiridion. That great destinies are in prospect for 
the human race we may fancy, without her ladyship's word for 
it : but more liberal than she, and having a little retrospective 
charity, as well as that easy prospective benevolence which Mrs. 
Sand adopts, let us try and think there is some hope for our 
fathers (who were nearer brutality than ourselves, according to 
the Sandean creed), or else there is a very poor chance for us, 
who, great philosophers as we are, are yet, alas ! far removed 
from that angelic consummation which all must wish for so 
devoutly. She cannot say — is it not extraordinary ? — how 
many centuries have been necessary before man could pass 
from the brutal state to his present condition, or how many 



MADAME SAND AND THE NEW APOCALYPSE. 209 

ages will be required ere we may pass from the state of man 
to the state of angels ? What the deuce is the use of chron- 
ology or philosophy ? — We were beasts, and we can't tell when 
our tails dropped off : we shall be angels ; but when our wings 
are to begin to sprout, who knows ? In the meantime, O man 
of geniiis, follow our counsel : lead an easy life, don't stick at 
trifles ; never mind about diity\ it is only made for slayes ; if 
the world reproach you, reproach the world in return, you have 
a good loud tongue in your head : if your strait-laced morals 
injure your mental respiration, fling off the old-fashioned stays, 
and leave your free limbs to rise and fall as Nature pleases ; 
and w^hen you have grown pretty sick of your liberty, and yet 
unfit to return to restraint, curse the world, and scorn it, and 
be miserable, like my Lord Byron and other philosophers of 
his kidney ; or else mount a step higher, and, with conceit still 
more monstrous, and mental vision still more wretchedly de- 
bauched and weak, begin suddenly to find yourself afflicted 
with a maudlin compassion for the human race, and a desire 
to set them right after your own fashion. There is the quarrel- 
some stage of drunkenness, w^ien a man can as yet walk and 
speak, when he can call names, and fling plates and wine- 
glasses at his neighbor's head with a pretty good aim ; after 
this comes the pathetic stage, when the patient becomes won- 
drous philanthropic, and weeps wildly, as he lies in the gutter, 
and fancies he is at home in bed — where he ought to be ; but 
this is an allegory. 

I don't wish to carry this any farther, or to say a word in 
defence of the doctrine which Mrs. Dudevant has found " incom- 
plete ; " — here, at least, is not the place for discussing its merits, 
any more than Mrs. Sand's book was the place for exposing, 
forsooth, its errors : our business is only with the day and the 
new novels, and the clever or silly people who write them. Oh ! 
if they but knew their places, and would keep to them, and 
drop their absurd philosophical jargon ! Not all the big words 
in the world can make Mrs. Sand talk like a philosopher : when 
will she go back to her old trade, of which she was the very 
ablest practitioner in France ? 

I should have been glad to give some extracts from the 
dramatic and descriptive parts of the novel, that cannot, in 
point of style and beauty, be praised too highly. One must 
suffice, — It is the descent of Alexis to seek that unlucky manu« 
script, Sj>iridio7t. 

" It seemed to me," he begins, '' that the descent was 
eternal ; and that I was burying myself in the depths of Erebus : 

14 



210 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

at last, I reached a level place, — and I heard a mournful voice 
deliver these words, as it were, to the secret centre of the earth 
— ' He will mount that ascent no more !' — Immediately I heard 
arise towards me, from the depth of invisible abysses, a myriad 
of formidable voices united in a strange chant — ' Let us destroy 
him / Let him be destroyed ! What does he here among the dead 1 
Let him be delivered back to torture I Let him be given again t@ 
life!' 

" Then a feeble light began to pierce the darkness, and I 
perceived that I stood on the lowest step of a staircase, vast as 
the foot of a mountain. Behind me were thousands of steps of 
lurid iron ; before me, nothing but a void — an abyss, and ether : 
the blue gloom of midnight beneath my feet, as above my head. 
I became delirious, and quitting that staircase, which me- 
thought it was impossible for me to reascend, I sprung forth 
into the void with an execration. But, immediately, when I had 
uttered the curse, the void began to be filled with forms and 
colors, and I presently perceived that I was in a vast gallery, 
along which I advanced, trembling. There was still darkness 
round me ; but the hollows of the vaults gleamed with a red 
light, and showed me the strange and hideous forms of their 
building. * * * i did not distinguish the nearest objects : 
but those towards which I advanced assumed an appearance 
more and more ominous, and my terror increased with every step 
I took. The enormous pillars which supported the vault, and 
the tracery thereof itself, were figures of men, of supernatural 
stature, delivered to tortures without a name. Some hung by 
their feet, and, locked in the coils of monstrous serpents, 
clenched their teeth in the marble of the pavement ; others, fas- 
tened by their waists, were dragged upwards, these by their feet 
those by their heads, towards capitals,where other figures stooped 
towards them, eager to torment them. Other pillars, again, rep- 
resented a struggling mass of figures devouring one another ; each 
of which only offered a trunk severed to the knees or to the 
shoulders, the fierce heads whereof retained life enough to seize 
and devour that which was near them. There were some who, 
half hanging down, agonized themselves by attempting, with 
their upper limbs, to flay the lower moiety of their bodies, 
which drooped from the columns, or were attached to the 
pedestals ; and others, who, in their fight with each other, 
were dragged along by morsels of flesh, — grasping which, they 
clung to each other with a countenance of unspeakable hate 
and agony. Along, or rather in place of, the frieze, there were 
on either side a range of unclean beings, wearing the human 



MADAME SAND AND THE NEW APOCALYPSE, 2 II 

form, but of a loathsome ugliness, busied in tearing human 
corpses to pieces — in feasting upon their limbs and entrails. 
From the vault, instead of bosses and pendants, hung the 
crushed and wounded forms of children ; as if to escape these 
eaters of man's flesh, they would throw themselves downwards, 
and be. dashed to pieces on the pavement. * * # 'Phg 
silence and motionlessness of the whole added to its awfulness. 
I became so faint with terror, that I stopped, and would fain 
have returned. But at that moment I heard, from the depths 
of the gloom through which I had passed, confused noises, like 
those of a multitude on its march. And the sounds soon 
became more distinct, and the clamor fiercer, and the steps 
came hurrying on tumultuously — at every new burst nearer, 
more violent, more threatening. I thought that I was pursued 
by this disorderly crowd ; and I strove to advance, hurrying 
into the midst of those dismal sculptures. Then it seemed as 
if those figures began to heave, — and to sweat blood, — and 
their beady eyes to move in their sockets. At once I beheld 
that they were all looking upon me, that they were all leaning 
towards me, — some with frightful derision, others with furious 
aversion. Every arm was raised against me, and they made 
as though they would crush me with the quivering limbs they 
had torn one from the other." * ^ *■ 

It is, indeed, a pity that the poor fellow gave himself the 
trouble to go down into damp, unwholesome graves, for the 
purpose of fetching up a few trumpery sheets of manuscript : 
and if the public has been rather tired with their contents, and 
is disposed to ask why Mrs. Sand's religious or irreligious 
notions are to be brought forward to people who are quite sat- 
isfied with their own, we can only say that this lady is the rep- 
resentative of a vast class of her countrymen, whom the wits 
and philosophers of the eighteenth century have brought to 
this condition. The leaves of the Diderot and Rousseau tree 
have produced this goodly fruit : here it is, ripe, bursting, and 
ready to fall ; — and how to fall ? Heaven send that it may 
drop easily, for all can see that the time is come. 



2 1 2 THE J^ARIS SKE TCH BOOK. 



THE CASE OF PEYTEL: 

IN A LETTER TO EDWARD BRIEFLESS, ESQUIRE, OF PUMP COURT, 

TEMPLE. 

Paris, N'ovember, 1839. 

My Dear Briefless, — Two months since, when the act- of 
accusation first appeared, containing the sum of the charges 
against Sebastian Peytel, all Paris was in a fervor on the sub- 
ject. The man's trial speedily followed, and kept for three 
days the public interest wound up to a painful point. He was 
found guilty of double murder at the beginning of September ; 
and, since that time, what with Maroto's disaffection and 
Turkish news, we have had leisure to forget Monsieur Peytel, 
and to occupy ourselves with n viov. Perhaps Monsieur de 
Balzac helped to smother what little sparks of interest might 
still have remained for the murderous notary. Balzac put for- 
ward a letter in his favor, so very long, so very dull, so very 
pompous, promising so much, and performing so little, that the 
Parisian public gave up Peytel and his case altogether ; nor 
was it until to-day that some small feeling was raised concern- 
ing him, when the newspapers brought the account how Peytel's 
head had been cut off at Bourg. 

He had gone through the usual miserable ceremonies and 
delays which attend what is called, in this country, the march 
of justice. Pie had made his appeal to the Court of Cassation, 
which had taken time to consider the verdict of the Provincial 
Court, and had confirmed it. He had made his appeal for 
mercy; his poor sister coming up all the way from Bourg (a 
sad journey, poor thing !) to have an interview with the King, 
who had refused to see her. Last Monday morning, at nine 
o'clock, an hour before Peytel's breakfast, the Greffier of Assize 
Court, in company with the Cure of Bourg, waited on him, and 
informed him that he had only three hours to live. At twelve 
o'clock, Peytel's head was off his body : an executioner from 
Lyons had come over the night before, to assist the professional 
throat-cutter of Bourg. 

I am not going to entertain you with any sentimental lamen- 
tations for this scoundrel's fate, or to declare my belief in his 
innocence, as Monsieur de Balzac has done. As far as moral 
conviction can go, the man's guilt is pretty clearly brought 



THE CASE OF PEYTEL. 



213 



home to him. . But any man who has read the " Causes Cele- 
bres," knows that men have been convicted and executed upon 
evidence ten times more powerful than that which was brought 
against Peytel. His own account of his horrible case may be 
true ; there is nothing adduced in the evidence which is strong 
enough to overthrow it. It is a serious privilege, God knows, 
that society takes upon itself, at any time, to deprive one of 
God's creatures of existence. But when the slightest doubt 
remains, what a tremendous risk does it incur ! In England, 
thank heaven, the law is more wise and more merciful ,• an 
English jury would never have taken a man's blood upon such 
testimony : an English judge and Crown advocate would never 
have acted as these Frenchmen have done ; the latter inflaming 
the public mind by exaggerated appeals to their passions : the 
former seeking, in every way, to draw confessions from the 
prisoner, to perplex and confound him, to do away, by fierce 
cross-questioning and bitter remarks from the bench, with any 
effect that his testimony might have on the jury. I don't 
mean to say that judges and lawyers have been more violent 
and inquisitorial against the unhappy Peytel than against any 
one else ; it is the fashion of the country : a man is guilty until 
he proves himself to be ini-kocent ; and to batter down his de- 
fence, if he have any, there are the lawyers, with all their hor- 
rible ingenuity, and their captivating passionate eloquence. It 
is hard thus to set the skilful and tried champions of the law 
against men unused to this kind of combat ; nay, give a m.an 
all the legal aid that he can purchase or procure, still, by this 
plan, you take him at a cruel, unmanly, disadvantage ; he has 
to fight against the law, clogged with the dreadful weight of his 
presupposed guilt. Thank God that, in England, things are not 
managed so. 

However, I am not about to entertain you with ignorant 
disquisitions about the law. Peytel's case may, nevertheless, 
interest you ; for the tale is a very stirring and mysterious one ; 
and you may see how easy a thing it is for a man's life to be 
talked away in France, if ever he should happen to fall under 
the suspicion of a crime. The French " Acte d'accusation " 
begins in the following manner : — 

" Of all the events which, in these latter times, have afflicted 
the department of the Ain, there is none which has caused a 
more profound and lively sensation than the tragical death of 
the lady, Felicite Alcazar, wife of Sebastian Benedict Peytel, 
notary, at Belley. At the end of October, 1838, Madame Pey- 
tel quitted that town, with her husband, and their servant 



214 THE PARIS SKE TCH BOOK. 

Louis Rey, in order to pass a few days at Macon : at mid- 
night, the inhabitants of Belley were suddenly awakened by 
the arrival of Monsieur Peytel, by his cries, and by the signs 
which he exhibited of the most lively agitation : he implored 
the succors of all the physicians in the town ; knocked violently 
at their doors ; rung at the bells of their houses with a sort of 
frenzy, and announced that his wife, stretched out, and dying, 
in his carriage, had just been shot, on the Lyons road, by his 
domestic, whose life Peytel himself had taken. 

" At this recital a number of persons assembled, and what 
a spectacle was presented to their eyes. 

'' A young woman lay at the bottom of a carriage, deprived 
of life ; her whole body was wet, and seemed as if it had just 
been plunged into the water. She appeared to be severely 
wounded in the face ; and her garments, which were raised up, 
in spite of the cold and rainy weather, left the upper part of 
her knees almost entirely exposed. At the sight of this half- 
naked and inanimate body, all the spectators were affected. 
People said that the first duty to pay to a dying woman was, 
to preserve her from the cold, to cover her. A physician 
examined the body ; he declared that all remedies were use- 
less ; that Madame Peytel was dead and cold. 

" The entreaties of Peytel were redoubled ; he demanded 
fresh succors, and, giving no heed to the fatal assurance which 
had just been given him, required that all the physicians in 
the place should be sent for. A scene so strange and so 
melancholy ; the incoherent account given by Peytel of the 
murder of his wife ; his extraordinary movements ; and the 
avowal which he continued to make, that he had despatched 
the murderer, Rey, with strokes of his hammer, excited the 
attention of Lieutenant Wolf, commandant of gendarmes : that 
officer gave orders for the immediate arrest of Peytel ; but the 
latter threw himself into the arms of a friend, who interceded 
for him, and begged the police not immediately to seize upon 
his person. 

"'The corpse of Madame Peytel was transported to her 
apartment ; the bleeding body of the domestic was likewise 
brought from the road, where it lay ; and Peytel, asked to 
explain the circumstance, did so." * * * 

Now, as there is little reason to tell the reader, when an 
English counsel has to prosecute a prisoner on the part of the 
Crown for a capital offence, he produces the articles of his 
accusation in the most moderate terms, and especially warns 
the jury to give the accused person the benefit of every possi- 



THE CASE OF PE YTEL. 



^^5 



ble doubt that the evidence may give, or may leave. See how 
these things are managed in France, and how differently the 
French counsel for the Crown sets about his work. 

He first prepares his act of accusation, the opening of 
which we have just read ; it is published six days before the 
trial, so that an unimpassioned, unprejudiced jury has ample 
time to study it, and to form its opinions accordingly, and to 
go into court with a happy, just prepossession against the 
prisoner. 

Read the first part of the Peytel act of accusation ; it is as 
turgid and declamatory as a bad romance ; and as inflated as 
a newspaper document, by an unlimited penny-a-liner: — "The 
department of the Ain is in a dreadful state of excitement ; the 
inhabitants of Belley come trooping from their beds, — and 
what a sight do they behold ; — a young woman at the bottom 
of a carriage, toiiie rjiisselanie, just out of a river ; her gar- 
ments, in spite of the cold and rain, raised, so as to leave the 
upper part of her knees entirely exposed, at which all the 
beholders were affected, and cried, that the Jirst duty was to 
cover her from the cold." This settles the case at once ; the 
first duty of a man is to cover the legs of the sufferer ; the 
second to call for help. The eloquent " Substitut du Pro- 
cureur du Roi" has prejudged the case, in the course of a few 
sentences. He is putting his readers, among whom his future 
jury is to be found, into a proper state of mind ; he works on 
them with pathetic description, just as a romance-writer would : 
the rain pours in torrents ; it is a dreary evening in November ; 
the young creature's situation is neatly described ; the dis- 
trust which entered into the breast of the keen old officer of 
gendarmes strongly painted, the suspicions which might, or 
might not, have "been entertained by the inhabitants, eloquently 
argued. How did the advocate know that the people had such ? 
did all the bystanders say aloud, " I suspect that this is a case 
of murder by Monsieur Peytel, and that his story about the 
domestic is all deception ? " or did they go off to the mayor, 
and register their suspicion ? or was the advocate there to 
hear them ? Not he ; but he paints you the whole scene, as 
though it had existed, and gives full accounts of suspicions, as 
if they had been facts, positive, patent, staring, that everybody 
could see and swear to. 

Having thus primed his audience, and prepared them for 
the testimony of the accused party, " Now," says he, with a 
line show of justice, " let us hear Monsieur Peytel ; " and that 
worthy's narrative is given as follows : — 



2 1 6 THE PARIS SKE TCH BOOK. 

"He said that he had left Macon on the 31st October, at 
eleven o'clock in the morning, in order to return to Belley, with 
his wife and servant. The latter drove, or led, an open car ; 
he himself was driving his wife in a four-wheeled carriage, 
drawn by one horse : they reached Bourg at five o'clock in the 
evening ; left it at seven, to sleep at Pont d'Ain, where they 
did not arrive before midnight. During the journey, Peytel 
thought he remarked that Rey had slackened his horse's pace. 
When they alighted at the inn, Peytel bade him deposit in 
his chamber 7,500 francs, which he carried with him ; but the 
domestic refused to do so, 'saying that the inn gates were 
secure, and there was no danger. Peytel was, therefore, 
obliged to carry his money up stairs himself. The next day, 
the ist November, they set out on their journey again, at nine 
o'clock in the morning ; Louis did not come, according to cus- 
tom, to take his master's orders. They arrived at Tenay about 
three, stopped there a couple of hours to dine, and it was eight 
o'clock when they reached the bourg of Rossillon, where they 
waited half an hour to bait the horses. 

" As they left Rossillon, the weather became bad, and the 
rain began to fall : Peytel told his domestic to get a covering 
for the articles in the open chariot ; but Rey refused to do so, 
adding, in an ironical tone, that the weather was fine. For 
some days past, Peytel had remarked that his servant was 
gloomy, and scarcely spoke at all. 

"After they had gone about 500 paces beyond the bridge 
of Andert, that crosses the river Furans, and ascended to the 
least steep, part of the hill of Darde, Peytel cried out to his 
servant, who was seated in the car, to come down from it, and 
finish the ascent on foot. 

"At this moment a violent wind was blowing from the 
south, and the rain was falling heavily : Peytel was seated 
back in the right corner of the carriage, and his wife, who was 
close to him, was asleep, with her head on his left shoulder. 
All of a sudden he heard the report of a fire-arm (he had seen 
the light of it at some paces' distance), and Madame Peytel 
cried out, ' My poor husband, take your pistols ; ' the horse 
was frightened, and began to trot. Peytel immediately drew 
the pistol, and fired, from the interior of the carriage, upon an 
individual whom he saw running by the side of the road. 

" Not knowing, as yet, that his wife had been hit, he jumped 
out on one side of the carriage, while Madame Peytel descended 
from the other ; and he fired a second pistol at his domestic, 
Louis Rey, whom he had just recognized. Redoubling his 



THE CASE OF FEY TEL. 



217 



pace, he came up with Rey, and struck him, from behind, a 
blow with the hammer. Rey turned at this, and raised up his 
arm to strike his master with the pistol, which he had just dis- 
charged at him; but Peytel, more quick than he, gave the 
domestic a blow with the hammer, which felled him to the 
ground (he fell his face forwards), and then Peytel, bestrid- 
ing the body, despatched him, although the brigand asked for 
mercy. 

*' He now began to think of his wife ; and ran back, calling 
out her name repeatedly, and seeking for her, in vain, on both 
sides of the road. Arrived ac the bridge of Andert, he recog- 
nized his wife, stretched in a field, covered with water, which 
bordered the Furans. This horrible discovery had so much 
the more astonished him, because he had no idea, until now, 
that his wife had been wounded ; he endeavored to draw her 
from the water, and it was only after considerable exertions 
that he was enabled to do so, and to place her, with her face 
towards the ground, on the side of the road. Supposing that, 
here, she would be sheltered from any further danger, and be- 
lieving, as yet, that she was only wounded, he determined to 
ask for help at a lone house, situated on the road towards Ros- 
sillon ; and at this instant he perceived, without at all being 
able to explain how, that his horse had followed him back to 
the spot, having turned back of its own accord, from the road 
to Belley. 

" The house at which he knocked was inhabited by two men, 
of the name of Thannet, father and son, who opened the door 
to him, and whom he entreated to come to his aid, saying that 
his wife had just been assassinated by his servant. The elder 
Thannet approached to, and examined the body, and told 
Peytel that it was quite dead ; he and his son took up the 
corpse, and placed it in the bottom of the carriage, which they 
all mounted themselves, and pursued their route to Belley. In 
order to do so, they had to pass by Rey's body, on the road, 
which Peytel wished to crush under the wheels of his carriage. 
It was to rob him of 7,500 francs, said Peytel, that the attack 
had been made." 

Our friend, the Procureur's Substitut, has dropped, here, 
the eloquent and pathetic style altogether, and only gives the 
unlucky prisoner's narrative in the baldest and most unimagin- 
ative style. How is a jury to listen to such a fellow .? they 
ought to condemn him, if but for making such an uninteresting 
statement. Why not have helped poor Peytel with some of 
those rhetorical graces which have been so plentifully bestowed 



2i8 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

in the opening part of the act. of accusation ? He might have 
said : — 

" Monsieur Peytel is an eminent notary at Belley ; he is a 
man distinguished for his literary and scientific acquirements ; 
he has Hved long in the best society of the capital ; he had 
been but a few months married to that young and unfortunate 
lady, whose loss has plunged her bereaved husband into de- 
spair almost into madness. Some early differences had marked, 
it is true, the commencement of their union ; but these, — which, 
as can be proved by evidence, were almost all the unhappy 
lady's fault, — had happily ceased, to give place to sentiments 
far more delightful and tender. Gentlemen, Madame Peytel 
bore in her bosom a sweet pledge of future concord between 
herself and her husband : in three brief months she was to be- 
come a mother. 

" In the exercise of his honorable profession — in which, to 
succeed, a man must not only have high talents, but undoubted 
probity, — and, gentlemen, Monsieur Peytel did succeed, — did 
inspire respect and confidence, as you, his neighbors, well 
know ; in the exercise, I say, of his high calling. Monsieur 
Peytel, towards the end of October last, had occasion to make 
a journey in the neighborhood, and visit some of his many 
clients. 

" He travelled in his own carriage, his young wife beside 
him. Does this look like want of affection, gentlemen ? or is 
it not a mark of love — of love and paternal care on his part 
towards the being with whom his lot in life was linked, — the 
mother of his coming child, — the young girl, who had every- 
thing to gain from the union with a man of his attainments of 
intellect, his kind temper, his great experience, and his high 
position? In this manner they travelled, side by side, lov- 
ingly together. Monsieur Peytel was not a lawyer merely, but 
a man of letters and varied learning ; of the noble and sublime 
science of geology he was, especially, an ardent devotee." 

(Suppose, here, a short panegyric upon geology. Allude to 
the creation of this mighty world, and then, naturally, to the 
Creator. Fancy the conversations which Peytel, a religious 
marj,* might have with his young wife upon the subject.) - 

" Monsieur Peytel had lately taken into his service a man 
named Louis Rey. Rey was a foundling, and had passed many 
years in a regiment — a school, gentlemen, where much besides 
bravery, alas ! is taught ; nay, where the spirit which familiar- 
izes one with notions of battle and death, I fear, may familarize. 

* He always went to mass : it is in the evidence. 



TBE CASE OF PEYTEL. 



21Q 



one with ideas, too, of murder. Rey, a dashing reckless fellow, 
from the army, had lately entered Peytel's service ; was treated 
by him with the most singular kindness ; accompanied him 
(having charge of another vehicle) upon the journey before 
alluded to ; and ktiew that his master carried with him a cofisid- 
erabk sum of money ; for a man like Rey an enormous sum, 
7,500 francs. At midnight on the ist of November, as Madame 
Peytel and her husband were returning home, an attack was 
made upon their carriage. Remember, gentlemen, the hour at 
which the attack was made ; remember the sum of money that 
was in the carriage ; and remember that the Savoy frontier is 
within a league of the spot where the desperate deed was done." 

Now, my dear Briefless, ought not Monsieur Procureur, in 
common justice to Peytel, after he had so eloquently proclaimed, 
not the facts, but the suspicions, which weighed against that 
worthy, to have given a similar florid account of the prisoner's 
case ? Instead of this, you will remark, that it is the advo- 
cate's endeavor to make Peytel's statements as uninteresting 
in style as possible ; and then he demolishes them in the fol- 
lowing way : — 

" Scarcely was Peytel's statement known, when the common 
sense of the public rose against it. Peytel had commenced his 
story upon the bridge of Andert, over the cold body of his wife. 
On the 2d November he had developed it in detail, in the pres- 
ence of the physicians, in the presence of the assembled neigh- 
bors — of the persons who, on the day previous only, were his 
friends. Finally, he had completed it in his interrogatories, his 
conversations, his writings, and letters to the magistrates ; and 
everywhere these words, repeated so often, were only received 
with a painful incredulity. The fact was that, besides the sin- 
gular character which Peytel's appearance, attitude, and talk had 
worn ever since the event, there was in his narrative an inexplic- 
able enigma ; its contradictions and impossibilities were such, 
that calm persons were revolted at it, and that even friendship 
itself refused to believe it." 

Thus Mr. Attorney speaks, not for himself alone, but for 
the whole French public ; whose opinions, of course, he knows. 
Peytel's statement is discredited everywhere ; the statement 
which he had made over the cold body of his wife — the mon- 
ster ! It is not enough simply to prove that the man committed 
the murder, but to make the jury violently angry against him, 
and cause them to shudder in the jury-box, as he exposes the 
horrid details of the crime. 

" Justice," goes on Mr. Substitute (who answers for the 



2 2 O THE PARIS SKE TCH BOOK, 

feelings of everybody), " disturbed by the pre-occiipat.ions of pub Jit 
opiiiioji, commenced, without delay, the most active researches. 
The bodies of the victims were submitted to the investigations 
of men of art ; the wounds and projectiles were examined ; the 
place where the event took place explored with care. The 
morality of the author of this frightful scene became the object 
of rigorous examination ; the exigeaiices of the prisoner, the 
forms affected by hnn, his calculating silence, and his answers, 
coldly insulting, were feeble obstacles ; and justice at length 
arrived, by its prudence, and by the discoveries it made, to the 
most cruel point of certainty." 

You see that a man's demeanor is here made a crime 
against him ; and that Mr Substitute wishes to consider him 
guilty, because he has actually the audacity to hold his tongue. 
Now follows a touching description of the .domestic Louis 
Rey:— 

" Louis Rey, a child of the Hospital at Lyons, was confided, 
at a very early age, to some honest country people, with whom 
he stayed until he entered the army. At their house, and dur- 
ing this long period of time, his conduct, his intelligence, and 
the sweetness of his manners were such, that the family of his 
guardians became to him as an adopted family ; and his de- 
parture caused them the most sincere affliction. When Louis 
quitted the army, he returned to his benefactors, and was re- 
ceived as a son. They found him just as they had ever known 
him " (I acknowledge that this pathos beats my humble de- 
fence of Peytel entirely), " except that he had learned to read 
and write ; and the certificates of his commanders proved him 
to be a good and gallant soldier. 

"The necessity of creating some resources for himself, 
obliged him to quit his friends, and to enter the service of 
Monsieur de Montrichard, a lieutenant of gendarmerie, from 
whom he received fresh testimonials of regard. Louis, it is 
true, might have a fondness for wine and a passion for women ; 
but he had been a soldier, and these faults were, according to 
the witnesses, amply compensated for by his activity, his intel- 
ligence, and the agreeable manner in which he performed his 
service. In the month of July, 1839, Rey quitted, voluntarily, 
the service of M. de Montrichard ; and Peytel, about this pe- 
riod, meeting him at Lyons, did not hesitate to attach him to his 
service. Whatever may be the prisoner's present language, it 
is certain that up to the day of Louis's death, he served Peyte] 
with diligence and fidelity. 



THE CASE OF PEYTEL. 221 

" More than once his master and mistress spoke well of 
him. Everybody who has worked, or been at the house of 
Madame Peytel, has spoken in praise of his character; and, 
indeed, it may be said, that these testimonials were general. 

*' On the very night of the ist of November, and imme- 
diately after the catastrophe, we remark how Peytel begins to 
make insinuations against his servant ; and how artfully, in 
order to render them more sure, he disseminates them through 
the different parts of his narrative. But, in the course of the 
proceeding, these charges have met with a most complete 
denial. Thus we find the disobedient servant who, at Pont 
d'Ain, refused to carry the money-chest to his master's room, 
under the pretext that the gates of the inn wqre closed securely, 
occupied with tending the horses after their long journey ; 
meanwhile Peytel was standing by, and neither master nor ser- 
vant exchanged a word, and the witnesses who beheld them 
both have borne testimony to the zeal and care of the domestic. 

" In like manner, we find that the servant, who was so re- 
miss in the morning as to neglect to go to his master for orders, 
was ready for departure before seven o'clock, and had eagerly 
informed himself whether Monsieur and Madame Peytel were 
awake ; learning from the maid of the inn, that they had or- 
dered nothing for their breakfast. This man, who refused to 
carry with him a covering for the car, was, on the contrar}^, 
ready to take off his own cloak, and with it shelter articles of 
small value ; this man who had been for many days silent and 
gloomy, gave, on the contrary, many proofs of his gayety — 
almost of his indiscretion, speaking, at all the inns, in terms of 
praise of his master and mistress. The waiter at the inn at 
Dauphin, says he was a tall young fellow, mild and good- 
natured ; ' we talked for some time about horses, and such 
things ; he seemed to be perfectly natural, and not pre-occu- 
pied at all' At Pont d'Ain, he talked of his being a found- 
ling ; of the place where he had been brought up, and where 
he had served ; and finally, at Rossillon, an hour before his 
death, he conversed familiarly with the master of the port, and 
spoke on indifferent subjects. 

"All Peytel's insinuations against his servant had no other 
end than to show, in every point of Rey's conduct, the behavior 
of a man who was premeditating attack. Of what, in fact, 
does he accuse him ? Of wishing to rob him of 7,500 francs, 
and of having had recourse to assassination, in order to effect 
the robbery. But, for a premeditated crime, consider what 
singular improvidence the person showed who had c'etermined 



22 2 ^/^-^ ^A RIS SKE rCH B O OJ^. 

on committing it; what folly and what weakness there is in the 
execution of it. 

" How many insurmountable obstacles are there in the way 
of committing and profiting by crime ! On leaving Belley, 
Louis Rey, according to Peytel's statement, knowing that his 
master would return with money, provided himself with a hol- 
ster pistol, which Madame Peytel had once before perceived 
among his effects. In Peytel's cabinet there were some balls ; 
four of these were found in Rey's trunk, on the 6th of Novem- 
ber. And, in order to commit the crime, this domestic had 
brought away with him a pistol, and no ammunition ; for Pey- 
tel has informed us that Rey, an hour before his departure 
from Macon, purchased six balls at a gunsmith's. To gain his 
point, the assassin must immolate his victims ; for this, he has 
only one pistol, knowing, perfectly well, that Peytel, in all his 
travels, had two on his person ; knowing that, at a late hour of 
the night, his shot might fail of effect ; and that, in this case, 
he would be left to the mercy of his opponent. 

*' The execution of the crime is, according to Peytel's ac- 
count, still more singular. Louis does not get off the carriage, 
until Peytel tells him to descend. He does not think of taking 
his master's life until he is sure that the latter has his eyes 
open. It is dark, and the pair are covered in one cloak ; and 
Rey only fires at them at six paces' distance : he fires at haz- 
ard, without disquieting himself as to the choice of his victim ; 
and the soldier, who was bold enough to undertake this double 
murder, has not force nor courage to consummate it. He flies, 
carrying in his hand a useless whip, with a heavy mantle on his 
shoulders, in spite of the detonation of two pistols at his ears, 
and the rapid steps of an angry master in pursuit, which ought 
to have set him upon some better means of escape. And we 
find this man, full of youth and vigor, lying with his face to the 
ground, in the midst of a public road, falling without a struggle, 
or resistance, under the blows of a hammer ! 

" And suppose the murderer had succeeded in his criminal 
projects, what fruit could he have drawn from them ? — Leaving, 
on the road, the two bleeding bodies ; obliged to lead two 
carriages at a time, for fear of discovery ; not able to return 
himself, after all the pains he had taken to speak, at every 
place at which they had stopped, of the money which his 
master was carrying with him ; too prudent to appear alone at 
Belley ; arrested at the frontier, by the excise officers, who 
would present an impassable barrier to him till morning, — what 
could he do, or hope to do ? The examination of the car has 



THE CASE OF PEYTEL, 223 

shown that Rey, at the moment of the crime, had neither linen, 
nor clothes, nor effects of any kind. There was found in his 
pockets, when the body was examined, no passport, nor certifi- 
cate ; one of his pockets contained a ball, of large calibre, which 
he had shown, in play, to a girl, at the inn at Macon^ a little 
horn-handled knife, a snuff-box, a little packet of gunpowder, 
and a purse, containing only a halfpenny and some string. 
Here is all the baggage, with which, after the execution of his 
homicidal plan, Louis Rey intended to take refuge in a foreign 
country.'* Beside these absurd contradictions, there is another 
remarkable fact, which must not be passed over ; it is this : — 
the pistol found by Rey is of antique form, and the original 
owner of it has been found. He is a curiosity merchant at 
Lyons ; and, though he cannot affirm that Peytel was the per- 
son who bought this pistol of him, he perfectly recognizes 
Peytel as having' been a frequent customer at his shop ! 

" No, we may fearlessly affirm that Louis Rey was not guilty 
of the crime which Peytel lays to his charge. If, to those who 
knew him, his mild and open disposition, his military career, 
modest and without a stain, the touching regrets of his em- 
ployers, are sufficient proofs of his innocence, —the calm and 
candid observer, who considers how the crime was conceived, 
was executed, and what consequences would have resulted from 
it, will likewise acquit him, and free him of the odious imputa- 
tion which Peytel endeavors to cast upon his memory. 

" But justice has removed the veil, with which an impious 
hand endeiavored to cover itself. Already, on the night of the 
ist of November, suspicion was awakened by the extraordinary 
agitation of Peytel ; by those excessive attentions towards his 
wife, which came so late ; by that excessive and noisy grief, and 
by those calculated bursts of sorrow, which are such as Nature 
does not exhibit. The criminal, whom the public conscience 
had fixed upon; the man whose frightful conibinations have 
been laid bare, and whose falsehoods, step by step, have been 
exposed, during the proceedings previous to the trial ; the 
murderer, at whose hands a heart-stricken family, and society 
at large, demands an account of the blood of a wife ; — that 
murderer is Peytel." 

When, my dear Briefless, you are a judge (as I make no 
doubt you will be, when you have left off the club all night, 
cigar-smoking of mornings, and reading novels in bed), will you 
ever find it in your heart to order a fellow-sinner's head off upon 

* This sentence is taken from another part of the " Acte d'accusation." 



2 2 4 TH^ PARIS SKE TCH BOOK. 

such evidence as this ? Because a romantic Substitut du Pro 
cureur de Roi chooses to compose and recite a little drama, and 
draw tears from juries, let us hope that severe Rhadamanthine 
judges are not to be melted by such trumpery. One wants but 
the description of the characters to render the piece complete, 
as thus : — 

Personages. Costumes. 

{ Habillement complet de 

Sebastien Peytel Meutrier j notaire perfide : figure pale, 

( barbe noire, cheveux noirs. 
f Soldat retire, bon, brave, "1 
I franc, jovial, aimant le vin, | Costume ordinaire; ilporte 

Louis Rey ^ les femmes, la gaiet6, ses [-sur ses epaules une couver- 

maitres surtout ; vrai Fran- | ture de cheval. 
1. gais, enfin. J 

Wolf Lieutenant de gendarmerie. 

Felicite d'Alcazar Femme et victim^ de Peytel. 

Medecins, Villageois, Filles d'Aiiberge, Gargons d'Ecurie, &c., &c. 
La scene se passe sur le pent d'Andert, entre Macon et Belley. II est minuit. L* 
pluie tombe : les tonnerres grondent. Le ciel est couvert de nuages, et silonne d'eclairs. 

All these personages are brought into play in the Pro- 
cureur's drama ; the villagers come in with their chorus ; the 
old lieutenant of gendarmes with his suspicions ; Rey's frank- 
ness and gayety, the romantic circumstances of his birth, his 
gallantry and fidelity, are all introduced, in order to form a 
contrast with Peytel, and to call down the jury's indignation 
against the latter. But are these proofs ? or anything like 
proofs ? And the suspicions, that are to serve instead of proofs, 
what are they ? 

" My servant, Louis Rey, was very sombre, and reserved," 
says Peytel ; " he refused to call me in the morning, to carry 
my money-chest to my room, to cover the open car when it 
rained.'' The Prosecutor disproves this by stating that Rey 
talked with the inn maids and servants, asked if his master was 
up, and stood in the inn-yard, grooming the horses, with his 
master by his side, neither speaking to the other. Might he 
not have talked to the maids, and yet been sombre when speak- 
ing to his master? Might he not have neglected to call his 
master, and yet have asked whether he was awake ? Might he 
not have said that the inn gates were safe, out of hearing of the 
ostler witness ? Mr. Substitute's answers to PeyteFs statements 
are no answer at all. Every word Peytel said might be true, 
and yet Louis Rey might not have committed the murder ; or 
every word might have been false, and yet Louis Rey might 
have committed the murder. 

"Then," says Mr. Substitute, "how many obstacles are 
there to the commission of the crime .'' And these are — 

" I. Rey provided liimself with otic holster pistol, to kill two 



THE CASE OE FEY TEL. 



225 



people, knowing well that one of them had always a brace of 
pistols about him. 

"2. He does not think of firing until his master's eyes are 
open ; fires at six paces, not caring at whom he fires, and then 
runs away. 

"3. He could not have intended to kill his master, because 
he had no passport in his pocket, and no clothes ; and because 
he must have been detained at the frontier until morning ; and 
because he would have had to drive two carriages, in order to 
avoid suspicion. 

" 4. And, a most singular circumstance, the very pistol 
which was found by his side had been bought at the shop of a 
man at Lyons, who perfectly recognized Peytel as one of his 
customers, though he could not say he had sold that particular 
weapon to Peytel." 

Does it follow, from this, that Louis Rey is not the mur- 
derer, much more, that Peytel is ? Look at argument No. i. 
Rey had no need to kill two people : he wanted the money, and 
not the blood. Suppose he had killed Peytel, would he not 
have mastered Madame Peytel easily ? — a weak woman, in an 
excessiv^ely delicate situation, incapable of much energy, at the 
best of times. 

2. " He does not fire till he knows his master's eyes are 
open." Why, on a stormy night, does a man driving a carriage 

o to sleep ? Was Rey to wait until his master snored } " He 
fires at six paces, not caring whom he hits ; " — and might not 
this happen too ? The night is not so dark but that he can see 
his master, in his usual place, driving. He fires and hits — 
whom ? Madame Peytel, who had left her place, a7id was 
wrapped up with Peytel in his cloak. She screams out '' Hus- 
band, take your pistols." Rey knows that his master has a 
brace, thinks that he has hit the wrong person, and, as Peytel 
fires on him, runs away. Peytel follows, hammer in hand ; as 
he comes up with the fugitive, he deals him a blow on the back 
of the head, and Rey falls — his face to the ground. Is there 
anything unnatural in this story? — anything so monstrously un- 
natural, that is, that it might not be true t 

3. These objections are absurd. Why need a man have 
change of linen ? If he had taken none for the journey, why 
should he want any for the escape t Why need he drive two 
carriages ? — He might have driven both into the river, and Mrs. 
Peytel in one. Why is he to go to the douane, and thrust him- 
self into the very jaws of danger? Are there not a thousand 
ways for a man to pass a frontier ? Do smugglers when they 

^5 



fc) 



2 26 THE PARIS SKE TCH BOOK. 

have to pass from one country to another, choose exactly those 
spots where a police is placed ? 

And, finall}^, the gunsmith of Lyons, who knows Peytel 
quite well, cannot say that he sold the pistol to him j that is, he 
did not sell the pistol to him ; for you have only one man's 
word, in this case (Peytel's), to the contrary ; and the testi- 
mony, as far it goes, is in his favor. I say, my lud, and gentle- 
men of the jury, that these objections of my learned friend, who 
is engaged for the Crown, are absurd, frivolous, monstrous ; 
that to suspect away the life of a man upon such suppositions as 
these, is wicked, illegal, and inhuman ; and, what is more, that 
Louis Rey, if he wanted to commit the crime — if he wanted to 
possess himself of a large sum of money, chose the best time 
and spot for so doing ; and, no doubt, would have succeeded, 
if Fate had not, in a wonderful manner, caused Madame Peytel 
to take her husband's place, and receive the ball intended for him 
in her own head. 

But whether these suspicions are absurd or not, hit or miss, 
it is the advocate's duty, as it appears, to urge them. He wants 
to make as unfavorable an impression as possible with regard 
to Peytel's character ; he, therefore, must, for contrast's sake, 
give all sorts of praise to his victim, and awaken every sym- 
pathy in the poor fellow's favor. Having done this, as far as 
lies in his power, having exaggerated every circumstance that 
can be unfavorable to Peytel, and given his own tale in the 
baldest manner possible — having declared that Peytel is the 
murderer of his wife and servant, the Crown now proceeds to 
back this assertion, by showing what interested motives he had, 
and by relating, after its own fashion, the circumstances of his 
marriage. 

They may be told briefly here. Peytel was of a good family, 
of Macon, and entitled, at his mother's death, to a considerable 
property. He had been educated as a notary, and had lately 
purchased a business, in that line, in Belley, for which he had 
paid a large sum of money ; part of the sum, 15,000 francs, for 
which he had given bills, was still due. 

Near Belley, Peytel first met Felicite Alcazar, who was re- 
siding with her brother-in-law, Monsieur de Montrichard -; and, 
knowing that the young lady's fortune was considerable, he 
made an offer of marriage to the brother-in-law, who thought 
the match advantageous, and communicated on the subject 
with Felicite's mother, Madame Alcazar, at Paris. After a time 
Peytel went to Paris, to press his suit, and was accepted. There 
seems to have been no affectation of love on his side j and some 



THE CASE OFPEYTEL. 



12."] 



little repugnance on the part of the lady, who yielded, however, 
to the wishes of her parents, and was married. The parties 
began to quarrel on the very day of the marriage, and continued 
their disputes almost to the close of the unhappy connection. 
Fe'licite was half blind, passionate, sarcastic, clumsy in her per- 
son and manners, and ill-educated ; Peytel, a man of consider- 
able intellect and pretensions, who had lived for some time at 
Paris, where he had mingled with good literary society. The 
lady was, in fact, as disagreeable a person as could well be, and 
the evidence describes some scenes which took place between 
her and her husband, showing how deeply she must have morti- 
fied and enraged him. 

A charge very clearly made out against Peytel, is that«of 
dishonesty ; he procured from the notary of whom he bought 
his place an acquittance in full, whereas there were 15,000 francs 
owing, as we have seen. He also, in the contract of marriage, 
which was to have resembled, in all respects, that between 
Monsieur Broussais and another Demoiselle Alcazar, caused an 
alteration to be made in his favor, which gave him command 
over his wife's funded property, without furnishing the guaran- 
tees by which the other son-in-law was bound. And, almost 
immediately after his marriage, Peytel sold out of the funds a 
sum of 50,000 francs, that belonged to his wife, and used it for 
his own purposes. 

About two months after his marriage, Peytel pressed his wife 
to make her will. He had made his, he said, leaving everything 
to her, in case of his death : after some parley, the poor thing 
consented.* This is a cruel suspicion against him ; and Mr. 
Substitute has no need to enlarge upon it. As for the previous 
fact, the dishonest statement about the 15,000 francs, there is 
nothing murderous in that — nothing which a man very eager to 
make a good marriage might not do. The same maybe said of 
the suppression, in Peytel's marriage contract, of the clause to 
be found in Broussais's, placing restrictions upon the use of 
the wife's money. Mademoiselle d'Alcazar's friends read the 



• "Peytel," says the act of accusation, " did not fail to see the danger which would 
menace him, if this will (which had escaped the magistrates in their search of Peytel's 
papers') was discovered. He, therefore, instructed his agent to take possession of it, which 
he did, and the fact was not mentioned for several months afterwards. Peytel and his agent 
were called upon to explain the circumstance, but refused, and their silence for a long time 
interrupted the * instruction' " (getting up of the evidence). " All that could be obtained 
from them was an avowal, that such a will existed, constituting Peytel his wife's sole legatee ; 
and a promise, on their parts, to produce it before the court gave its sentence." But why 
keep the will secret ? The anxiety about it was surely absurd and unnecessary : the whob* 
of Madame Peytel's family knew that such a will was made. She had consulted her sister 
concerning it, who said, — " If there is no other way of satisfying him, make the will ; " and 
the mother, when she heard of it, cried out, — " Does he intend to poison her ? " 



2 28 THE PA RIS SKE TCH B O OK. 

contract before they signed it, and might have refused it, had 
they so pleased. 

After some disputes, which took place between Peytel and 
his wife (there were continual quarrels, and continual letters 
passing between them from room to room), the latter was in- 
duced to write him a couple of exaggerated letters, swearing 
" by the ashes of her father " that she would be an obedient 
wife to him, and entreating him to counsel and direct her. 
These letters were seen by members of the lady's family, who, 
in the quarrels between the couple, always took the husband's 
part. They were found in Peytel's cabinet, after he had been 
arrested for the murder, and after he had had full access to all 
his papers, of which he destroyed or left as many as he pleased. 
The accusation makes it a matter of suspicion against Peytel, 
that he should have left these letters of his wife's in a con- 
spicuous situation. 

" All these circumstances," says the accusation, " throw a 
frightful light upon Peytel's plans. The letters and will of 
Madame Peytel are in the hands of her husband. Three 
months pass away, and this poor woman is brought to her 
home, in the middle of the night, with two balls in her head, 
stretched at the bottom of her carriage, by the side of a 
peasant." 

"What other than Sebastian Peytel could have committed 
this murder ? — whom could it profit 1 — who but himself had an 
odious chain to break, and an inheritance to receive ? Why 
speak of the servant's projected robbery ? The pistols found 
by the side of Louis's body, the balls bought by him at Macon, 
and those discovered at Belley among his effects, were only 
the result of a perfidious combination. The pistol, indeed, 
which was found on the hill of Darde, on the night of the ist 
of November, could only have belonged to Peytel, and must 
have been thrown by him, near the body of his domestic, with 
the paper which had before enveloped it. Who had seen this 
pistol in the hands of Louis ? Among all the gendarmes, work- 
women, domestics, employed by Peytel and his brother-in-law, 
is there one single witness who had seen this weapon in Louis's 
possession ? It is true that Madame Peytel did, on one' occa- 
sion, speak to M. de Montrichard of a pistol ; which had 
nothing to do, however, with that found near Louis Rey." 

Is this justice, or good reason ? Just reverse the argument, 
and apply it to Rey. "Who but Rey could have committed 
this murder ? — who but Rey had a large sum of money to seize 
upon ? — a pistol is found by his side, balls and powder in his 



THE CASE OF PEYTEL. 



229 



pocket, other balls in his trunks at home. The pistol found 
near his body could not, indeed, have belonged to Peytel : did 
any man ever see it in his possession ? The very gunsmith 
who sold it, and who knew Peytel, would he not have known 
that he had sold him this pistol? At his own house, Peytel 
has a collection of weapons of all kinds ; everybody has seen 
them — a man who makes such collections is anxious to display 
them. Did any one ever see this weapon ? — Not one. And 
Madame Peytel did, in her lifetime, remark a pistol in the 
valet's possession. She was short-sighted, and could not par- 
ticularize what kind of pistol it was ; but she spoke of it to 
her husband and her brother-in-law." This is not satisfactory, 
if you please ; but, at least, it is as satisfactory as the other 
set of suppositions. It is the very chain of argument which 
would have been brought against Louis Rey ' by this very 
same compiler of the act of accusation, had Rey survived, in- 
stead of Peytel, and had he, as most undoubtedly would have 
been the case, been tried for the murder. 

This argument was shortly put by Peytel's counsel : — " IJ 
Peytel had been killed by Rey in the struggle, would you not have 
fou7id Rey guilty of the murder of his mistress V^ It is such a 
dreadful dilemma, that I wonder how judges and lawyers could 
have dared to persecute Peytel in the manner which they did. 

After the act of accusation, which lays down all the suppo- 
sitions against Peytel as facts, which will not admit the truth 
of one of the prisoner's allegations in his own defence, comes 
the trial. The judge is quite as impartial as the preparer of 
the indictment, as will be seen by the following specimens of 
his interrogatories : — 

yudge. "The act of accusation finds in your statement 
contradictions, improbabilities, impossibilities. Thus your do- 
mestic, who had determined to assassinate you, in order to rob 
you, and who 7nust have calculated upoji the consequence of a fail- 
ure, had neither passport nor money upon him. This is very 
unlikely ; because he could not have gone far with only a single 
halfpenny, which was all he had." 

Prisoner. "My servant was known, and often passed the 
frontier without a passport." 

yudge. " Your domestic had to assassinate two persons, and 
had no weapon but a single pistol. He had no dagger ; and 
the only thing found on him was a knife." 

Prisoner. " In the car there were several turner's imple- 
ments, which he might have used." 

yudge. " But he had not those arms upon him, because you 



23C 



THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 



pursued him immediately. He had, according to you, only 
this old pistol." 

Prisoner. " I have nothing to say." 

jfudge. *' Your domestic, instead of flying into the woods, 
which skirt the road, ran straight forward on the road itself : 
//«>, agai?i is very unlikely.''' 

Prisoner. " This is a conjecture I could answer by another 
conjecture ; I can only reason on the facts." 

Judge. " How far did you pursue him ? " 

Prisoner. " I don't know exactly." 

Judge. " You said, ' two hundred paces.' ' 

No answer from the prisoner. 

Judge. "Your domestic was young, active, robust, and 
tall. He was ahead of you. You were in a carriage, from 
which you had to descend : you had to take your pistols from a 
cushion, and then your hammer ; — how are we to believe that 
you could have caught him, if he ran? It is impossible.^' 

Prisofier, " I can't explain it : I think that Rey had some 
defect in one leg. I, for my own part, run tolerably fast." 

Judge. " At what distance from him did you fire your first 
shot ? " 

Prisoner. " I can't tell." 

Judge. " Perhaps he was not running when you fired.' 

Prisoner. " I saw him running." 

Judge. " In what position was your wife ? " 

Prisoner. " She was leaning on my left arm, and the man 
was on the right side of the carriage." 

Judge. " The shot must have been fired a bout portant, be- 
cause it burnt the eyebrow and lashes entirely. The assassin 
must have passed his pistol across your breast." 

Prisoner. " The shot was not fired so close ; I am con- 
vinced of it : professional gentlemen will prove it." 

Judge. " That is what you pretend, because you understand per- 
fectly the consequences of admitting the fact. Your wife was hit with 
two balls — one striking downwards, to the right, by the nose, 
the other going horizontally through the cheek, to the left." 

Prisoner. " The contrary will be shown by the witnesses 
called for the purpose." 

Judge. " // is a very unlucky combination for you that these 
balls, which went, you say, from the same pistol, should have 
taken two different directions." 

Prisoner. " I can't dispute about the various combinations 
of fire-arms — professional persons will be heard." 

Judge. *' According to your statement, your wife said to 
you, * My poor husband, take your pistols.' " 



THE CASE OF PEYTEL 



231 



Prisoner. " She did." 

Judge. " In a manner quite distinct ? " 

Prisoner. " Yes." 

Judge. " So distinct that you did not fancy she was hit ? " 

Prisoner. " Yes ; that is the fact." 

Judge. " Here, again, is an impossibility ; and nothing is 
more precise than the declaration of the medical men. They 
affirm that your wife could not have spoken — their report is 
unanimous." 

Prisoner. " I can only oppose to it quite contrary opinions 
from professional men, also : you must hear them." 

Jidge. " What did your wife do next ? " 

* * * * # 

Judge. " You deny the statements of the witnesses : " 
(they related to Peytel's demeanor and behavior, which the 
judge wishes to show were very unusual ; — and what if they 
were ?) " Here, however, are some mute witnesses, whose 
testimony, you will not perhaps refuse. Near Louis Rey's 
body was found a horse-cloth, a pistol, and a whip. * * 
Your domestic must have had this cloth upon him when he 
went to assassinate you : it was wet and heavy. An assassin 
disencumbers himself of anything that is likely to impede him, 
especially when he is going to struggle with a man as young as 
himself." 

Prisoner. " My servant had, I believe, this covering on 
his body ; it might be useful to him to keep the priming of his 
pistol dry." 

The president caused the cloth to be opened, and showed 
that there was no hook or tie, by which it could be held to- 
gether ; and that Rey must have held it with one hand, and, in 
the other, his whip, and the pistol with which he intended to 
commit the crime ; which was impossible. 

Prisoner. '* These are only conjectures." 

And what conjectures, my God ! upon which to take away 
the life of a man. Jeffreys, or Fouquier Tinville, could scarcely 
have dared to make such. Such prejudice, such bitter perse- 
cution, such priming of the jury, such monstrous assumptions 
and unreason — fancy them coming from an impartial judge ! 
The man is worse than the public accuser. 

" Rey," says the Judge, ''could not have committed the 
murder, because he had no 7noney in his pocket, to fly, in case of 
failure.'''' And what is the precise sum that his lordship thinks 
necessary for a gentleman to have, before he makes such an 
attempt t Are the men who murder for money usually in pos- 



J32' 



THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 



session of a certain independence before they begin ? How 
much money was Rey, a servant, who loved wine and women, 
had been stopping at a score of inns on the road, and had, 
probably, an annual income of 400 francs, — how much money 
was Rey likely to have ? 

" Your servant had to assassinate two persons ^ This I have 
mentioned before. Why had he to assassinate two persons,* 
when one was enough ? If he had killed Peytel, could he not 
have seized and gagged his wife immediately ? 

" Your domestic 7'an straight forwa^'d, instead of taking to the 
woods .^ by the side of the 7-oad : this isve?'y unlikely.'' How does 
his worship know ? Can any judge, however enlightened, tell 
the exact road that a man will take, who has just missed a coup 
of murder, and is pursued by a man who is firing pistols at him ? 
And has a judge a right to instruct a jury in this way, as to 
what they shall, or shall not, believe ? 

" You have to run after an active man, who has the start of 
you : to jump out of your carriage ; to take your pistols ; and 
then, your hammer. This is impossible.'' By heavens ! does 
it not make a man's blood boil, to read such blundering, blood- 
seeking sophistry .? This man, when it suits him, shows that 
Rey would be slow in his motions ; and when it suits him, 
declares that Rey ought to be quick ; declares ex cathedra, 
what pace Rey should go, and what direction he should take ; 
shows, in a breath, that he must have run faster than Peytel ; 
and then, that he could not run fast, because the cloak clogged 
him ; settles how he is to be dressed when he commits a mur- 
der, and what money he is to have in his pocket ; gives these 
impossible suppositions to the jury, and tells them that the 
previous statements are impossible ; and, finally, informs them 
of the precise manner in which Rey must have stood holding 
his horse-cloth in one hand, his whip and pistol in the other, 
when he made the supposed attempt at murder. Now, what 
is the size of a horse-cloth ? Is it as big as a pocket-handker- 
chief ? Is there no possibility that it might hang over one 
shoulder : that the whip should be held under that very arm ! 
Did you never see a carter so carry it, his hands in his pockets 
all the while? Is it monstrous, abhorrent to nature, that a 
man should fire a pistol from under a cloak on'a rainy day.? — 
that he siiould, after firing the shot, be frightened and run; 
run straight before him, with the cloak on his shoulders, and 

* M. Balzac's theory of the case is, that Rey had intrigued with Madame Peytel; 
having known her previous to her marriage, when she was staying in the house of her 
brother-in-law, Monsieur de Montichard, where Rey had been a servant' 



THE CASE OF PEYTEL. i?33 

the weapon in his hand ? Peytel's story is possible, and very 
possible ; it is almost probable. Allow that Rey had the cloth 
on, and you allow that he must have been clogged in his mo- 
tions ; that Peytel may have come up with him — felled him 
with a blow of the hammer : the doctors say that he would 
Iiave so fallen by one blow — he would have fallen on his face, 
as he was found : the paper might have been thrust into his 
breast, and tumbled out as he fell. Circumstances far more 
impossible have occurred ere this ; and men have been hanged 
for them, who were as innocent of the crime laid to their charge 
as the judge on the bench, who convicted them. 

In like manner, Peytel may not have committed the crime 
charged to him ; and Mr. Judge, with his arguments as to pos- 
sibilities and impossibilities, — Mr. Public Prosecutor, with his 
romantic narrative and inflammatory harangues to the jury, — • 
may have used all these powers to bring to death an inno- 
cent man. From the animus with which the case had been 
conducted from beginning to end, it was easy to see the re- 
sult. Here it is, in the words of the provincial paper : — 

Bour, 28 October, 1839. 

" The condemned Peytel has just undergone his punish- 
ment, which took place four days before the anniversary of his 
crime. The terrible drama of the bridge of Andert, which cost 
the life of two persons, has just terminated on the scaffold. 
Midday has just sounded on the clock of the Palais : the same 
clock tolled midnight when, on the 30th of August, his sentence 
was pronounced. 

" Since the rejection of his appeal in Cassation, on which 
his principal hopes were founded, Peytel spoke little of his 
petition to the King. The notion of transportation was that 
which he seemed to cherish most. However, he made several 
inquiries from the jailer of the prison, when he saw him at 
meal-time, with regard to the place of execution, the usual hour, 
and other details on the subject. From that period, the words 
' Chafnp de Foire' (the fairfield, where the execution was to be 
held,) were frequently used by him in conversation. 

" Yesterday, the idea that the time had arrived seemed to 
be more strongly than ever impressed upon him ; especially 
after the departure of the cure, who latterly had been with him 
every day. The documents connected with the trial had arrived 
in the morning. He was ignorant of this circumstance, but 
sought to discover from his guardians what they tried to hide 
from him ; and to find out whether his petition was rejected, 
^nd when he was to die. 



^34 ^-^^ PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

" Yesterday, also, he had written to demand the presence 
of his counsel, M. Margerand, in order that he might have some 

conversation with him, and regulate his affairs, before he ; 

he did not write down the word, but left in its place a few points 
of the pen. ^ 

" In the evening, whilst he was at supper, he begged earn- 
estly to be allowed a little wax-candle, to finish what he was 
writing : otherwise, he said, Titne might fail. This was a new, 
indirect manner of repeating his ordinary question. As light, 
up to that evening, had been refused him, it was thought best 
to deny him in this, as in former instances ; otherwise his 
suspicions might have been confirmed. The keeper refused 
his demand. 

" This morning, Monday, at nine o'clock, the Grefiier of the 
Assize Court, in fulfilment of the painful duty which the law 
imposes upon him, came to the prison, in company with the 
cure of Bourg, and announced to the convict that his petition 
was rejected, and that he had only three hours to live. He 
received this fatal news with a great deal of calmness, and 
showed himself to be no more affected than he had been on the 
trial. ' I am ready : but I wish they had given me four-and- 
twenty hours' notice,' — were all the words he used. 

" The Grefiier now retired, leaving Peytel alone with the 
cure, who did not, thenceforth, quit him. Peytel breakfasted 
at ten o'clock. 

" At eleven, a picquet of mounted gendarmerie and infantry 
took their station upon the place before the prison, where a 
great concourse of people had already assembled. An open 
car was at the door. Before he went out, Peytel asked the 
jailer for a looking-glass ; and having examined his face for a 
moment, said, * At least, the inhabitants of Bourg will see that 
I have not grown thin.' 

" As twelve o'clock sounded, the prison gates opened, an 
aide appeared, followed by Peytel, leaning on the arm of the 
cure. Peytel's face was pale, he had a long black beard, a blue 
cap on his head, and his great coat flung over his shoulders, 
and buttoned at the neck. 

" He looked about at the place and the crowd; he asked if 
the carriage would go at a trot ; and on being told that that 
would be difficult, he said he would prefer walking, and asked 
what the road was. He immediately set out, walking at a firm 
and rapid pace. He was not bound at all. 

" An immense crowd of people encumbered the two streets 
through which he had to pass to the place of execution. He 



THE CASE OF PEYTEL. 



235 



cast his eyes alternately upon them and upon the guillotine, 
which was before him. 

"Arrived at the foot of the scaffold, Peytel embraced the 
cure, and bade him adieu. He then embraced him again, 
perhaps, for his mother and sister. He then mounted the steps 
rapidly, and gave himself into the hands of the executioner, 
who removed his coat and cap. He asked how he was to place 
himself, and, on a sign being made, he flung himself briskly on 
the plank, and stretched his neck. In another moment he was 
no more. 

"The crowd, which had been quite silent, retired, pro- 
foundly moved by the sight it had witnessed. As at all execu- 
tions, there was a very great number of women present. 

" Under the scaffold there had been, ever since the morning, 
a coffin. The family had asked for his remains, and had them 
immediately buried, privately : and thus the unfortunate man's 
head escaped the modellers in wax, several of whom had 
arrived to take an impression of it." 

Down goes the axe ; the poor wretch's head rolls gasping 
into the basket ; the spectators go home, pondering ; and Mr. 
Executioner and his aides, have, in half an hour, removed all 
traces of the august sacrifice, and of the altar on which it had 
been performed. Say, Mr. Briefless, do you think that any 
single person, meditating murder, would be deterred therefrom 
by beholding this — nay, a thousand more executions t It is 
not for moral improvement, as I take it, nor for opportunity to 
make appropriate remarks upon the punishment of crime, that 
people make a holiday of a killing-day, and leave their homes 
and occupations, to flock and witness the cutting off of a head. 
Do we crowd to see Mr. Macready in the new tragedy, or 
Mademoiselle Ellssler in her last new ballet and flesh-colored 
stockinnet pantaloons, out of a pure love of abstract poetry and 
beauty ; or from a strong notion that we shall be excited, in 
different ways, by the actor and the dancer 1 And so, as we 
go to have a meal of fictitious terror at the tragedy, or some- 
thing more questionable in the ballet, we go for a glut of blood 
to the execution. The lust is in every man's nature, more or 
less. Did you ever witness a wrestling or boxing match ? 
The first clatter of the kick on the shins, or the first drawing 
of blood, makes the stranger shudder a little ; but soon the 
blood is his chief enjoyment, and he thirsts for it with a fierce 
delight. It is a fine grim pleasure that we have in seeing a 
man killed ; and I make no doubt that the organs of destruc- 
tiveness must begin to throb and swell as we witness the 
delightful, savage spectacle. 



236 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

Three or four years back, when Fieschi and Lacenaire 
were executed, I made attempts to see the execution of both : 
but was disappointed in both cases. In the first instance, the 
day for Fieschi's death was, purposely, kept secret ; and he 
was, if I remember rightly, executed at some remote quarter of 
the town. But it would have done a philanthropist good, to 
witness the scene which we saw on the morning when his exe- 
cution did not take place. 

It was carnival time, and the rumor had pretty generally 
been carried abroad that he was to die on that morning. A 
friend, who accompanied me, came many miles, through the 
mud and dark, in order to be in at the death. We set out be- 
fore light, floundering through the muddy Champs Elysees , 
where, besides, were many other persons floundering, and al\ 
bent upon the same errand. We passed by the Concert o\ 
Musard, then held in the Rue St. Honore ; and round this, in 
the wet, a number of coaches were collected. The ball was 
just up, and a crowd of people, in hideous masquerade, drunk, 
tired, dirty, dressed in horrible old frippery, and daubed with 
filthy rouge, were trooping out of the place : tipsy women and 
men, shrieking, jabbering, gesticulating, as French will do ; 
parties swaggering, staggering forwards, arm in arm, reeling to 
and fro across the street, and yelling songs in chorus : hun- 
dreds of these were bound for the show, and we thought our- 
selves lucky in finding a vehicle to the execution place, at> the 
Barriere d'Enfer. As we crossed the river and entered the 
Enfer Street, crowds of students, black workmen, and more 
drunken devils from more carnival balls, were filling it ; and on 
the grand place there were thousands of these assembled, look- 
ing out for Fieschi and his cortege. We waited and waited ; 
but alas ! no fun for us that morning : no throatcutting ; no 
august spectacle of satisfied justice ; and the eager spectators 
were obliged to return, disappointed of their expected break- 
fast of blood. It would have been a fine scene, that execution, 
could it but have taken place in the midst of the mad mounte- 
banks and tipsy strumpets who had flocked so far to witness 
it, wishing to wind up the delights of their carnivalJDy a bonne' 
louche of a murder. 

The other attempt was equally unfortunate. We arrived 
too late on the ground to be present at the execution of 
Lacenaire and his co-mate in murder, Avril. But as we came 
to the ground (a gloomy round space, within the barrier — three 
roads lead to it ; and, outside, you see the wine-shops and re- 
staurateurs' of the barrier looking ^ay and inviting,) — as we 



THE CASE OF PEYTEL. 237 

came to the ground, we only found, in the midst of it, a little 
pool of ice, just partially tinged with red. Two or three idle 
street-boys were dancing and stamping about this pool ; and 
when I asked one of them whether the execution had taken 
place, he began dancing more madly than ever, and shrieked 
out with a loud fantastical, theatrical voice, " Venez tous Mes- 
sieurs et Dames, voyez ici le sang du monstre Lacenaire, et de 
son compagnon le traitre Avril," or words to that .effect ; and 
straightway all the other gamins screamed out the words in 
chorus, and took hands and danced round the little puddle. 

O august Justice, your meal was followed by a pretty ap- 
propriate grace ! Was any man, who saw the show, deterred, 
or frightened, or moralized in any way ? He had gratified his 
appetite for blood, and this was all. There is something sin- 
gularly pleasing, both in the amusement of execution-seeing, 
and in the results. You are not only delightfully excited at 
the time, but most pleasingly relaxed afterwards ; the mind, 
which has been wound up painfully until now, becomes quite 
complacent and easy. There is something agreeable in the 
misfortunes of others, as the philosopher has told us. Remark 
what a good breakfast you eat after an execution ; how pleasant 
it is to cut jokes after it, and upon it. This merry, pleasant 
mood is brought on by the blood tonic. 

But, for God's sake, if we are to enjoy this, let us do so 
in moderation ; and let us, at least, be sure of a man's guilt 
before we murder him. To kill him, even with the full assur- 
ance that he is guilty, is hazardous enough. Who gave you 
the right to do so ? — you, who cry out against suicides, as im- 
pious and contrary to Christian law .? What use is there in 
killing him .'* You deter no one else from committing the crime 
by so doing : you give us, to be sure, half an hour's pleasant 
entertainment ; but it is a great question whether we derive 
much moral profit from the sight. If you want to keep a mur- 
derer from farther inroads upon society, are there not plenty of 
hulks and prisons, God wot ; treadmills, galleys, and houses of 
correction ? Above all, as in the case of Sebastian Peytel and 
his family, there have been two deaths already ; was a third 
death absolutely necessary ? and, taking the fallibility of judges 
and lawyers into his heart, and remembering the thousand in- 
stances of unmerited punishment that have been suffered, upon 
similar and stronger evidence before, can any man declare, 
positively and upon his oath, that Peytel was guilty, and thai 
this was not the third murder i?i the family^ 



'38 



THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 



FOUR IMITATIONS OF BERANGER, 



LE ROI D'YVETOT 

II etait un roi d'Yvetot, 

Peu connu dans I'histoire ; 
Se levant tard, se couchant tot, 

Dormant fort bien sans gloire. 
Et couronne par Jeanneton 
D'un simple bonnet de coton, 
Dit-on. 
Oh ! oh ! oh ! oh ! ah ! ah ! ah ! ah ! 
Quel bon petit roi c'etait la ! 
La la. 

II fesait ses quatre repas 

Dans son palais de chaume, 
Et sur un ane, pas a pas, 

Parcourait son royaume. 
Joyeux, simple et croyant le bien, 
Pour toute garde il n'avait rien 
Qu'un chien. 
Oh ! oh ! oh ! oh ! ah ! ah ! ah ! ah ! &c. 
La, la. 

II n'avait de gout onereux 

Qu'une soif un peu vive ; 
Mais, en rendant son peuple heureux, 

II faut bien qu'un roi vive. 
Lui-meme ^ table, et sans suppot, 
Sur chaq,ue muid levait un pot 
D'impot. 
Oh ! oh ! oh ! oh ! ah ! ah ! ah ! ah ! &e. 
La, la. 



FOUR IMITATIONS OF BERANGER. 239 

Aux filles de bonnes maisons 

Comme il avait su plaire, 
Ses sujets avaient cent raisons 

De le nommer leur pere : 
D'ailleurs il ne levait de ban 
Que pour tirer quatre fois I'an 
Au blanc. 
Oh ! oh ! oh ! oh ! ah ! ah ! ah ! ah ! &c. 
La, la. 

II n'agrandit point ses etats, 

Fut un voisin commode, 
Et, modele des potentats, 

Prit le plaisir pour code. 
Ce n'est que lorsqu'il expira. 
Que le peuple qui Tenterra 
Pleura. 
Oh ! oh ! oh ! oh ! ah ! ah ! ah ! ah ! &c. 
La, la. 

On conserve encor le portrait 

De ce digne et bon prince ; 

C'est I'enseigne d'un cabaret 

Fameux dans la province. 
Les jours de fete, bien souvent, 
La foule s'ecrie en buvant 
Devant : 
Oh ! oh ! oh ! oh ! ah ! ah ! ah ! ah J 
Quel bon petit roi c'etait W ' 
La, la. 



THE KING OF YVETOT. 

There was a king of Yvetot, 

Of whom renown hath little said, 
Who let all thoughts of glory go, 

And dawdled half his days a-bed ; 
And every night, as night came round, 
By Jenny, with a nightcap crowned. 
Slept very sound : 
Sing, ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he 
That's the kind of king for me. 



240 



THE PARIS SJ^ETCH BOOK. 

And every day it came to pass, 

That four lusty meals made he ; 
And, step by step, upon an ass, 

Rode abroad, his realms to see ; 
And wherever he did stir, 
What think you was his escort, sir ? 
Why, an old cur. 
Sing, ho, ho, ho ! &c. 

If e'er he went into excess, 

'Twas from a somewhat lively thirst j • 
But he who would his subjects bless, . 

Odd's fish ! — must wet his whistle first : 
And so from every cask they got. 
Our king did to himself allot. 
At least a pot. 
Sing, ho, ho ! &c. 

To all the ladies of the land, 

A courteous king, and kind, was he : 
The reason why you'll understand, 

They named him Pater Patriae. 
Each year he called his fighting men. 
And marched a league from home, and then 
Marched back again. 
Sing, ho, ho ! &c. 

Neither by force nor false pretence. 

He sought to make his kingdom great. 
And made (O princes, learn from hence) — 

" Live and let live," his rule of state. 
'Twas only when he came to die. 
That his people who stood by, 

Were known to cry. 
Sing, ho, ho ! &c. 

The portrait of this best of kings 

Is extant still, upon a sign 
That on a village tavern swings. 

Famed in the Country for good wine. 
The people, in their Sunday trim. 
Filling their glasses to the brim, 
Look up to him. 
Singing, ha, ha, ha ! and he. he, he I 
That's the sort of kinii for me. 



FOUR IMITATIONS OF BERANGER 



241 



THE KING OF BRENTFORD. 
ANOTHER VERSION. 

There was a king in Brentford, — of whom no legends Itell, 
But who, without his glory, — could eat and sleep right Iwell. 
His Polly's cotton nightcap, — it was his crown of state, 
He slept of evenings early, — and rose of mornings late; 

All in a fine mud palace, — each day he took four meals. 
And for a guard of honor, — a dog ran at his heels. 
Sometimes, to view his kingdoms, — rode forth this monarch 

good, 
And then a prancing jackass — he royally bestrode. 

There were no costly habits — with which this king was curst, 
Except (and where's the harm on't ? ) — a somewhat lively 

thirst ; 
But people must pay taxes, — and kings must have their sport, 
So out of every gallon — His Grace he took a quart. 

He pleased the ladies round him, — with manners soft and 

bland ; 
With reason good, they named him,^the father of his land. 
Each year his mighty armies — marched forth in gallant show ; 
Their enemies were targets, — their bullets they were tow. 

He vexed no quiet neighbor, — no useless conquest made, 
But by the laws of pleasure, — his peaceful realm he swayed, 
And in the years he reigned, — through all this country wide, 
Theie was no cause for weeping, — save when the good man 
died. 

The faithful men of Brentford, — do still their king deplore. 
His portrait yet is swinging, — beside an ale-house door.- 
And topers, tender-hearted, — regard his honest phiz, 
And envy times departed, — that knew a reign like his. 

16 



242 



THR PARIS SKETCH BOOK 



LE GRENIER. 

Je viens revoir I'asile ou ma jeunesse 
De la mis^re a subi les lemons. 
J'avais vingt ans, une folle maitresse, 
De francs amis et I'amour des chansons 
Bravant le monde et les sots et les sages, 
Sans avenir, riche de mon printemps, 
Leste et joyeux je montais six etages. 
Dans un grenier qu'on est bien a vingt ans ! 

C'est un grenier, point ne veux qu'on I'ignore. 
La fut mon lit, bien chetif et bien dur ; 
Lk fut ma table ; et je retrouve encore 
Trois pieds d'un vers charbonnes sur le mur. 
Apparaissez, plaisirs de mon bel age, 
Que d'un coup d'aile a fustiges le temps, 
Vingt fois pour vous j'ai mis ma montre en gage, 
Dans un grenier qu'on est bien a vingt ans ! 

Lisette ici doit surtout apparaitre, 
Vive, jolie, avec un frais chapeau ; 
Deja sa main a I'etroite fenetre 
Suspend son schal, en guise de rideau. 
Sa robe aussi va parer ma couchette ; 
Respecte, Amour, ses plis longs et flottans. 
J'ai su depuis qui payait sa toilette. 
Dans un grenier qu'on est bien a vingt ans ! 

A table un jour, jour de grande richesse, 
De mes amis les voix brillaient en choeur, 
Quand jusqu'ici monte un cri d'allegresse : 
A Marengo Bonaparte est vainqueur. 
Le cannon gronde ; un autre chant commence : 
Nous celebrons tant de faits e'clatans. 
Les rois jamais n'envahiront la France. 
Dans un grenier qu'on est bien a vingt ans ! 

Quittons ce toit ou ma raison s'enivre. 
Oh ! qu'ils sont loin ces jours si regrettes ! 
J'echangerais ce qu'il me reste \ vivre 
Centre undes mois qu'ici Dieu m'a comptes, 



FOUR IMITATIONS OF BERANGER, 

Pour rever gloire, amour, plaisir, folic, 
Pour depenser sa vie en peu d'instans, 
D'un long espoir pour lavoir embellie, 
Dans un grenier qu'on est bien a vingt ans ! 



243 



THE GARRET. 



With pensive eyes the little room I view, 

Where, in my youth, I weathered it so long ; 
With a wild mistress, a stanch friend or two, 

And a light heart still breaking into song : 
Making a mock of life, and all its cares, 

Rich in the glory of my rising sun. 
Lightly I vaulted up four pair of stairs. 

In the brave days when I was twenty-one. 

Yes ; 'tis a garret — let him know't who will — 

There was my bed — full hard it was and small. 
My table there — and I decipher still 

Half a lame couplet charcoaled on the wall. 
Ye joys, that Time hath swept with him away. 

Come to mine eyes, ye dreams of love and fun ; 
For you I pawned my watch how many a day. 

In the brave days when I was twenty-one. 

And see my little Jessy, first of all ; 

She comes with pouting lips and sparkling eyes 
Behold, how roguishly she pins her shawl 

Across the narrow casement, curtain-wise ; 
Now by the bed her petticoat glides down, 

And when did woman look the worse in none t 
I have heard since who paid for many a gown, 

In the brave days when I was twenty-one. 

One jolly evening, when my friends and I 

Made happy music with our songs and cheers, 
A shout of triumph mounted up thus high. 

And distant cannon opened on our ears : 
We rise, — we join in the triumphant strain,— 

Napoleon conquers — Austerlitz is won — 
Tyrants shall never tread us down again. 

In the brave days when I was twenty-one. 



244 



THE PARTS SKETCH BOOK. 

Let us begone — the place is sad and strange — 

How far, far off, these happy times appear; 
All that I have to live I'd gladly change 

For one such month as I have wasted here — 
To draw long dreams of beauty, love, and power, 

From founts of hope that never will outrun, 
And drink all life's quintessence in an hour, 

Give me the days when I was twenty-one ! 



ROGER-BONTEMPS. 

Aux gens atrabilaires 
Pour exemple donne. 
En un temps de misereS 
Roger-Bontemps est ne. 
Vivre obscure a sa guise, 
Narguer les me'contens ; 
Eh gai ! c'est la devise ^ 
Du gros Roger-Bontemps.; 

Du chape au de son pere 
Coiffe clans les grands jours, 
De roses ou de lierre 
Le rajeunir toujours ; ' 
Mettre un manteau'cle bure, 
Vieil ami de vingt ans ; 
Eh gai ! c'est la parure 
Du gros Roger-Bontemps. 

Posseder dans sa hutte 
Une table, un vieux lit, 
Des cartes, une flute, 
Un broc que Dieu remplit } 
Un portrait de maitresse, 
Un coffre et rien dedans ; 
Eh gai ! c'est la richesse 
Du gros Roger-Bontemps. 



FOUR I All T A TIONS OF BERANGER. 

Aux enfants de la ville 
Montrer de petits jeux \ 
Etre fesseur habile 
De contes graveleux ; 
Ne parler que de danse 
Et d'almanachs chantans; 
Eh gai ! c'est la science 
Du gros Roger-Bontemps. 

Faute de vins d'elite, 
Sabler ceux du canton : 
Preferer Marguerite 
Aux dames du grand ton : 
De joie et de tendresse 
Remplir tous ses instans ; 
Eh gai ! c'est la sagesse 
Du gros Roger-Bontemps. 

Dire au ciel : Je me fie, 
Mon pere, \ ta bonte ; . 
De ma philosophic 
Pardonne le gaite r 
Que ma saison derniere 
Soit encore un printemps ; 
lEh gai ! c'est la priere 
Du gros Roger-Bontemps. 

Vous, pauvres pleins d'envie, 
Vous. riches de'sireux, 
Vous, dont le char devie 
Apres un cours heureux ; 
Vous, qui perdrez peut-etre 
Des titres eclatans, 
Eh gai ! prenez pour maitre 
Le gros Roger-Bontemps. 



245 



246 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 



JOLLY JACK. 



When fierce political debate 

Throughout the isle was storming, 
And Rads attacked the throne and state, 

And Tories the reforming, 
To calm the furious rage of each, 

And right the land demented. 
Heaven sent us Jolly Jack, to teach 

The way to be contenred. 

Jack's bed was straw, 'twas warm and soft, 

His chair, a three legged-stool ; 
His broken jug was emptied oft, 

Yet, somehow, always full. 
His mistress' portraits decked the wall. 

His mirror had a crack ; 
Yet, gay and glad, though this was all 

His wealth, lived Jolly Jack. 

To give advice to avarice, 

Teach pride its mean condition, 
And preach good sense to dull pretence. 

Was honest Jack's high mission. 
Our simple statesman found his rule 

Of moral in the flagon. 
And held his philosophic school 

Beneath the " George and Dragon.*' 

When village Solons cursed the Lords, 

And called the malt-tax sinful. 
Jack heeded not their angry words, 

But smiled, and drunk his skinful. 
And when men wasted health and life. 

In search of rank and riches, 
Jack marked, aloof, the paltry strife, 

And wore his threadbare breeches. 

" I enter not the church," he said, 

*' But I'll not seek to rob it ; " 
So worthy Jack Joe Miller read, 

While others studied Cobbett. 



FOUR IMITATIONS OF BER ANGER. 147 

His talk it was of feast and fun ; 

His guide the Almanac ; 
From youth to age thus gayly run 

The life of Jolly Jack. 

And when Jack prayed, as oft he would, 

He humbly thanked his Maker ; 
" I am," said he, " O Father good ! 

Nor Catholic nor Quaker : 
Give each his creed, let each proclaim 

His catalogue of curses ; 
I trust in Thee, and not in them, 

In Thee, and in Thy mercies ! 

" Forgive me if, midst all Thy works, 

No hint I see of damning ; 
And think there's faith among the Turks, 

And hope for e'en the Brahmin. 
Harmless my mind is, and my mirth, 

And kindly is my laughter ; 
I cannot see the smiling earth, 

And think there's hell hereafter." 

Jack died ; he left no legacy. 

Save that his story teaches : — 
Content to peevish poverty ; 

Humility to riches. 
Ye scornful great, ye envious small, 

Come, follow in his track ; 
We all were happier, if we all 

Would copy Jolly Jack. 



24$ THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 



FRENCH DRAMAS AND MELODRAMAS, 

There, ^re three kinds of drama in France, -which you may 
subdivide as much as you please. 

There is the old classical drama, wellnigh dead, and full 
time too : old tragedies, in which half a dozen characters ap- 
pear, and spout -sonorous Alexandrines for half a dozen hours. 
The fair Rachel has been, trying to revive this genre, and to 
untomb Racine ; but be jiot alarmed, Racine will never come 
to life again, and cause audiences to weep as of yore. Madame 
Rachel can only galvanize the corpse, not revivify it. Ancient 
French tragedy, red-heeled, patched, and- be-periwigged, lies 
in the grave ; and it is only the ghost of it that we see, which 
the fair Jewess has raised. There are classical comedies in 
verse, too, wherein the knavish valets, rakish heroes, stolid old 
guardians, and smart, free-spoken serving-women, discourse in 
Alexandrines, as loud as the Horaces or the Cid. An Eng- 
lishman will seldom reconcile himself to the roulement of the 
verses, and the painful recurrence of the rhymes ; for my part, 
I had rather go to Madame Saqui's, or see Deburau dancing on 
a rope : his lines are quite as natural and poetical. 

Then there is the comedy of the day, of which Monsieur 
Scribe is the father. Good heavens ! with what a number of 
gay colonels, smart widows, and silly husbands has that gentle- 
man peopled the play-books. How that unfortunate seventh 
commandment has been maltreated by him and his disciples. 
You will see four pieces, at the Gymnase, of a night ; and so 
sure as you see them, four husbands shall be wickedly used. 
When is this joke to cease ? Mon Dieu ! Play-writers have 
handled it for about two thousand years, and the public, like 
a great baby, must have the tale repeated to it over and over 
again. 

Finally, there is the Drama, that great monster which has 
sprung into life of late years ; and which is said, but I don't 
believe a word of it, to have Shakspeare for a father. If Mon- 
sieur Scribe's plays may be said to be so many ingenious ex- 
amples how to break one commandment, the drama is a grand 
and general chaos of all ; nay, several crimes are added, not 
prohibited in the Decalogue, which were written before dramas 
were. Of the drama, Victor Hugo and Dumas are the well- 
known and respectable guardians. Every piece Victor Hugo 



FRENCH DRAMAS AND MELODRAMAS. 249 

has written, since " Hemani," has contained a monster — a 
delightful monster, saved by one virtue. There is Triboulet, a 
foolish monster ; Lucr^ce Borgia, a maternal monster ; Mary 
Tudor, a religious monster : Monsieur Quasimodo, a hump- 
backed monster ; and others, that might be named, whose mon- 
strosities we are induced to pardon — nay, admiringly to witness 
— because they are agreeably mingled with some exquisite dis- 
play of affection. And, as the great Hugo has one monster to 
each play, the great Dumas has, ordinarily, half a dozen, to 
whom murder is nothing ; common intrigue, and simple break- 
age of the before-mentioned commandment, nothing ; but who 
live and move in a vast, delightful complication of crime, that 
cannot be easily conceived in England, much less described. 

When I think over the number of crimes that I have seen 
Mademoiselle Georges, for instance, commit, I am filled with 
wonder at her greatness, and the greatness of the poets who 
have conceived these charming horrors for her. I have seen 
her make love to, and murder, her sons, in the " Tour de 
Nasle." I have seen her poison a company of no less than 
nine gentlernen, at Ferrara, with an affectionate son in the 
number ; I have seen her, as Madame de Brinvilliers, kill off 
numbers of respectable relations in the first four acts ; and, at 
the last, be actually burned at the stake, to which she comes 
shuddering, ghastly, barefooted, and in a white sheet. Sweet 
excitement of tender sympathies ! Such tragedies are not so 
good as a real, downright execution ; but, in point' of interest, 
the next thing to it : with what a number of moral emotions do 
they fill the breast ; with what a hatred of vice, and yet a true 
pity and respect for that grain of virtue that is to be found in 
us all : our bloody, daughter-loving Brinvilliers ; our warm- 
hearted, poisonous Lucretia Borgia; above all, what a smart 
appetite for a cool supper afterwards, at the Cafe Anglais, 
when the horrors of the play act as a piquant sauce to the 
supper ! 

Or, to speak more seriously and to come, at last, to the 
point. After having seen most of the grand dramas which 
have been produced at Paris for the last half-dozen years, and 
thinking over all that one has seen, — the fictitious murders, 
rapes, adulteries, and other crimes, by which one has been in- 
terested and excited, — a man may take leave to be heartily 
ashamed of the manner in which he has spent his time ; and of 
the hideous kind of mental intoxication in which 1 e has per- 
piitted himself to indulge. 

Nor are simple society outrages the only sort of crime in 



3 ^ O ^^^-^ ^^ ^^^ -^^"^ ^^^^ ^ O OK. 

which the spectator of Paris plays has permitted himself to 
indulge ; he has recreated himself with a deal of blasphemy 
besides, and has passed many pleasant evenings in beholding 
religion defiled and ridiculed. 

Allusion has been made, in a former paper, to a fashion 
that lately obtained in France, and which went by the name of 
Catholic reaction ; and as, in this happy country, fashion is 
everything, we have not merely Catholic pictures and quasi 
religious books, but a number of Catholic plays have been pro- 
duced, very edifying to the frequenters of the theatres or the 
Boulevards, who have learned more about religion from these 
performances than they have acquired, no doubt, in the whole 
of their lives before. In the course of a very few years we 
have seen — "The Wandering Jew;" " Belshazzar's Feast;" 
*' Nebuchadnezzar:" and the " Massacre of the Innocents ; " 
"Joseph and his brethren ;" " The passage of the Red Sea ; " 
and " The Deluge." 

The great Dumas, like Madame Sand before mentioned, 
has brought a vast quantity of religion before the foot-lights. 
There was his famous tragedy of " Caligula," which, be it 
spoken to the shame of the Paris critics, was coldly received ; 
nay, actually hissed, by them. And why? Because, says 
Dumas, it contained a great deal too much piety for the rogues. 
The public, he says, was much more religious, and understood 
him at once. 

" As for the critics," says he, nobly, " let those who cried 
out against the immorality of Antony and Margue'rite de Bour- 
gogne, reproach me for the chastity of MessalinaT (This dear 
creature is the heroine of the play of " Caligula.") " It mat- 
ters little to me. These people have but seen the form of my 
work : they have walked round the tent, but have not seen the 
arch which it covered ; they have examined the vases and can- 
dles of the altar, but have not opened the tabernacle ! 

"The public alone has, instinctively, comprehended that 
there was, beneath this outward sign, an inward and mysterious 
grace : it followed the action of the piece in all its serpentine 
windings ; it listened for four hours, with pious attention {avec 
rccueillement et religion), to the sound of this rolling river of 
thoughts, which may have appeared to it new and bold, per- 
haps, but chaste and grave ; and it retired, with its head on its 
breast, like a man that had just perceived, in a dream, the 
solution of a problem which he has long and vainly sought in 
his waking hours." 

You see that not only Saint Sand is an apostle, in her way ; 



FRENCH DRAMAS AND MELODRAMAS. 251 

but Saint Dumas is another. We have people in England who 
write for bread, like Dumas and Sand, and are paid so much 
for their line ; but they don't set up for prophets. Mrs. Trol- 
lope has never declared that her novels are inspired by heaven ; 
Mr. Buckstone has written a great number of farces, and never 
talked about the altar and the tabernacle. Even Sir Edward 
Bulwer (who, on a similar occasion, when the critics found fault 
with a play of his, answered them by a pretty decent declara- 
tion of his own merits,) never ventured to say that he had 
received a divine mission, and was uttering five-act revela- 
tions. 

All things considered, the tragedy of " Caligula " is a decent 
tragedy ; as decent as the decent characters of the hero and 
heroine can allow it to be ; it may be almost said, provokingly 
decent : but this, it must be remembered, is the characteristic 
of the modern French school (nay, of the English school too) ; 
and if the writer take the character of a remarkable scoundrel, 
it is ten to one but he turns out an amiable fellow, in whom we 
have all the warmest sympathy. " Caligula " is killed at the 
end of the performance ; Messalina is comparatively well- 
behaved ; and the sacred part of^the performance, the tabernacle- 
characters apart from the mere " vase " and " candlestick " per- 
sonages, may be said to be depicted in the person of a Chris- 
tian convert, Stella, who has had the good fortune to be con- 
verted by no less a person than Mary Magdalene, when she, 
Stella, was staying'on a visit to her aunt, near Narbonne. 

Stella (continuant^ Voilk 

Que je vols s'avancer, sans pilote et sans rames, 

Une barque portant deux hommes et deux fennmes, 

Et, spectacle inoui qui me ravit encor, 

Tous quatre avaient au front une aureole d'or 

D'oii partaient des rayons de si vive lumifere 

Que je fus obligee ^ baisser la paupiere ; 

Et, lorsque je rouvris les yeux avec effroi, 

Les voyageurs divins etaient aupres de moi. 

Un jour de chacun d'eux et dans toute sa gloirc 

Je te raconterai la marveilleuse histoire, 

Et tu I'adoreras, j'espere ; en ce moment, 

Ma mere, il te sufifit de savoir seulement 

Que tous quatre venaient du fond de la Syria : 

Un edit les avait bannis de leur patrie, 

Et, se faisant bourreaux, des hommes irrit6s, 

Sans avirons, sans eau, sans pain et garrottes, 

Sur une frele barque echouee au rivage, 

Les avaient a la mer pousses dans un orage. 

Mais \ peine I'esquif eut-il touche les flots 

Qu'au cantique chante par les saints matelots, 

L'ouragan replia ses ailes fremissantes, 

Que la mer aplanit ses vagues mugissantes, 



252 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

Et qu'un soleil plus pur, reparaissant aux cieux, 
Enveloppal'esquif d'un cercle radieux ! * * 

JuNlA. — Mais c'etait iin prodige. 

Stella. — Un miracle, ma mb^el 

Leurs fers tomberent seuls, I'eau cessa d'etre amere, 
Et deux fois chaque jour la bateau fut couvert 
D'une manne pareille k celle du desert : 
C'est ainsi que, pousses par une main celeste, 
Je les vis aborder. 

JuNiA. — Oh 1 dis vite le reste! 

Stella. — A I'aube, trois d'entre eux quitterent la maison : 
Marthe prit le chemin qui mene ^ Tarascon, 
Lazare et Maximin celui de Massilie,' 

Et celle qui resta * * ^ c'etait la plus jolie^ (how truly French!) 
Nous faisant appeler vers le milieu du jour, 
Demanda si les monts ou les bois d'alentour 
Cachaient quelque retraite inconnue et profonde, 
Qui la put separerk tout jamais du monde. * * * 
Aquila se souvint qu'il avait penetre 
Dans un autre sauyage et de tous ignor6, 
Grotte creusee aux flancs de ces Alpes sublimes, • 
Oil I'aigle fait son aire au-dessus des abimes. 
II offrit cat asile, et des le lendemain 
Tous deux, pour I'y guider, nous etions en chemin. 
Le soir du second jour nous touchames sa base : 
O, tombant \ genoux dans une sainte extase, 
Elle pria long-temps, puis vers I'antre inconnu, 
Denouant sa chaussure, elle marcha pied niu 
Nos prieres, nos cris resterent sans reponses : 
Au milieu des cailloux, des epines, des ronces, 
Nous la vimes monter, un baton k la main, 
Et ce n'est qu'arriveeau terme du chemin, 
Qu'enfin elle tomba sans force et sans haleine * * * 

Junia. — Comment la nommait-on, ma fille? 

Stella. — Madeleine. 



Walking, says Stella, by the sea-shore, " A bark drew near, 
that had nor sail nor oar ; two women and two men the vessel 
bore : each of that crew, 'twas wondrous to behold, wore round 
his head a ring of blazing gold ; from which such radiance glit- 
tered all around, that I was fain to look towards the ground. 
And when once more I raised my frightened eyne, before me 
stood the travellers divine ; their rank, the glorious lot that 
each befell, at better season, mother, will I tell. Of this anon : 
the time will come when thou shalt learn to worship as I wor- 
ship now. Suffice it, that from Syria's land they came ; an 
edict from their country banished them. Fierce, angry men 
had seized upon the four, and launched them in that vessel 
from the shore. They launched these victims on the waters 
rude ; nor rudder gave to steer, nor bread for food. As the 
doomed vessel cleaves the stormy main, that pious crew uphfts 
a sacred strain ; the angry waves are silent as it sings ; the 
storm, awe-stricken, folds its quivering wings. A purer sun 



FRENCH DRAMAS AND MELODRAMAS. 



253 



appears the heavens to light, and wraps the little bark in radi- 
ance bright. 

" JuNiA. — Sure, 'twas a prodigy. 

" Stella. — A miracle. Spontaneous from their hands the 
fetters fell.. The salt sea-wave grew fresh ; and, twice a day, 
manna (like that which on the desert lay) covered the bark, and 
fed them on their way. Thus, hither led, at heaven's divine 
behest, I saw them land — 

" JuNiA. — My daughter, tell the rest. 

"Stella. — Three of the four, our mansion left at dawn. 
One, Martha, took the road toTarascon ; Lazarus and Maximin 
to Massily ; but one remained (the fairest of the three), who 
asked us, if, i' the woods or mountains near, there chanced to 
be some cavern lone and drear ; where she might hide, for- 
ever, from all men. It chanced, my cousin knew of such a 
den ; deep hidden in a mountain's hoary breast, on which the 
eagle builds his airy nest. And thither offered he the saint to 
guide. Next day upon the journey forth we hied ; and came, 
at the second eve, with weary pace, unto the lonely mountain's 
rugged base. Here the worn traveller, falling on her knee, did 
pray awhile in sacred ecstasy ; and, drawing off her sandals 
from her feet, marched, naked, towards that desolate retreat. 
No answer made she to our cries or groans ; but walking midst 
the prickles and rude stones, a staff in hand, we saw her 
upwards toil ; nor dver did she pause, nor rest the while, save 
at the entry of that savage den. Here, powerless and panting, 
fell she then. 

"Junta. — What was her name, my daughter? 

" Stella. Magdalen." 

Here the translator must pause-shaving no inclination to 
enter " the tabernacle," in company with such a spotless high- 
priest as Monsieur Dumas. 

Something "tabernacular " may be found in Dumas's 
famous piece of " Don Juan de Marana." The poet has laid 
the scene of his play in a vast number of places : in heaven 
(where we have the Virgin Mary, and little angels, in blue, 
swinging censers before her !) — on earth, under the earth, and 
in a place still lower, but not mentionable to ears polite ; and 
the plot, as it appears from a dialogue between a good and a 
bad angel, with which the play commences, turns upon a con- 
test between these two worthies for the possession of the soul 
of a member of the family of Marana. 

"Don Juan de Marana " not only resembles his namesake, 



254 



THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 



celebrated by Mozart and Moliere, in his peculiar successes 
among the ladies, but possesses further qualities which render 
his character eminently fitting for stage representation : he 
unites the virtues of Lovelace and Lacenaire ; he blasphemes 
upon all occasions ; he murders, at the slightest provocation, 
and without the most trifling remorse ; he overcomes ladies of 
rigid virtue, ladies of easy virtue, and ladies of no virtue at all ; 
and the poet, inspired by the contemplation of such a char- 
acter, has depicted his hero's adventures and conversation with 
wonderful feeling and truth. 

The first act of the play contains a half-dozen of murders 
and intrigues ; which would have sufficed humbler genius than 
M. Dumas's, for the completion of, at least, half a dozen trage- 
dies. In the second act our hero flogs his elder brother, and 
runs away with his sister-in-law ; in the third, he fights a duel 
with a rival, and kills him : whereupon the mistress of his 
victim takes poison, and dies, in great agonies, on the stage. 
In the fourth act, Don Juan, having entered a church for the 
purpose of carrying off a nun, with whom he is in love, is seized 
by the statue of one of the ladies whom he has previously 
victimized, and made to behold the ghosts of all those unfor- 
tunate persons whose deaths he has caused. 

This is a most edifying spectacle. The ghosts rise solemnly, 
each in a white sheet, preceded by a wax-candle ; and, having 
declared their names and qualities, call, in chorus, for ven- 
geance upon Don Juan, as thus : — 

Don Sandoval loquitur. 

•* I am Don Sandoval d'Ojedo. I played against Don Juan 
my fortune, the tomb of my fathers, and the heart of my mis- 
tress ; — I lost all : I played against him my life, and I lost it. 
Vengeance against the murderer ! vengeance ! " — {The candle 
goes out.) 

The candle goes out, and an angel descends — a flaming sword 
in his hand — and asks : " Is there no voice in favor of Don 
Juan ? " when lo ! Don Juan's father (like one of those ingeni- 
ous toys called "Jack-in-the-box,") jumps up from his coffin, 
and demands grace for his son. 

When Martha the nun returns, having prepared all things 
for her elopement, she finds Don Juan fainting upon the ground. 
— " I am no longer your husband," says he, upon coming to 
himself; "I am no longer Don Juan; I am Brother Juan 
the Trappist. Sister Martha, recollect that you must die ! " 



FRENCH DRAMAS AND MELODRAMAS. 



255 



This was a most cruel blow upon Sister Martha, who is no 
less a person than an angel, an angel in disguise — the good 
spirit of the house of Marana, who has gone to the length of 
losing her wings and forfeiting her place in heaven, in order to 
keep company with Don Juan on earth, and, if possible, to 
convert him. Already, in he& angelic character, she had ex- 
horted him to repentance, but in vain ; for, while she stood at 
one elbow, pouring not merely hints, but long sermons, into his 
ear, at the other elbow stood a bad spirit, grinning and sneer- 
ing at all her pious counsels, and obtaining by far the greater 
share, of the Don's attention. 

In spite, however, of the utter contempt with which Don 
Juan treats her, — in spite of his dissolute courses, which must 
shock her virtue, — and his impolite neglect, which must 
wound her vanity, the poor creature (who, from having been 
accustomed to better company, might have been presumed 
to have had better taste), the unfortunate angel feels a certain 
inclination for the Don, and actually flies ujd to heaven to ask 
permission to remain with him on earth. 

And when the curtain draws up, to the sound of harps, and 
discovers white-robed angels walking in the clouds, we find the 
angel of Marana upon her knees, uttering the following ad- 
dress : — 

Le Bon Ange. 

Vierge, a qui le calice k la liqueur amere 

Fut si souvent offert, 
Mfere, que I'on nomma la douloureuse mere, 

Tant vous avez souffert ! 

Vous, dont les yeux divins sur la terre des hommes 

Ont verse plus de pleurs 
Que vos pieds n'ont depuis, dans le ciel ou nous sommes. 

Fait eclore de fleurs, 

Vase d'election, ^toile matinale, 

Miroir de purete, 
Vous qui priez pour nous, d'une voix virginale, 

La supreme bonte ; 

A mon tour, anjourd'hui, bienheureuse Marie, 

Je tombe ^ vos genoux ; 
Daignez done m'ecouter, car c'est vous que je prie, 

Vous qui priez pour nous. 

Which may be thus interpreted : — 



O Virgin blest ! by whom the bitter draught 
So often has been quaffed, 

That, for thy sorrow, thou art named by us 
The Mother Dolorous 1 



256 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

Thou, from whose eyes have fallen more tears of woe. 

Upon the earth below, 
Than 'neath thy footsteps, in this heaven of ours, 

Flave risen flowers ! 

O beaming morning star ! O chosen vase » 

O mirror of all grace ! 
Who, with thy virgin voice, dost ever pray 

Man's sins away ; 

Bend down thine ear, and list, O blessed saint ! 
Unto my sad complaint ; 
» Mother ! to thee I kneel, on thee I call, 
Who hearest all. 

She proceeds to request that she may be allowed to return to 
earth, and follow the fortunes of Don Juan; and, as there is 
one difficulty, or, to use her own words, — 

Mais-, comme vous savez qu'aux vo&tes dternelles, 

Malgre moi, tend mon vol, 
Soiifflez sur vton etoile et detaches nies ailes, 

Po2ir ni'etichainer au sol ; 

her request is granted, her star is blown out (O poetic allu- 
sion !) and she descends to earth to love, and to go mad, and 
to die for Don Juan I 

The reader will require no further explanation, in order to 
be satisfied as to the moral of this play : but is it not a very 
bitter satire upon the country, which calls itself the politest 
nation in the world, that the incidents, the indecency, the 
coarse blasphemy, and the vulgar wit of this piece, should find 
admirers among the public, and procure reputation for the 
author? Could not the Government, which has re-established, 
in a manner, the theatrical censorship, and forbids or alters 
plays which touch on politics, exert the same guardianship 
over public morals ? The honest English reader, who has a 
faith in his clergyman, and is regular attendant at Sunday 
worship, will not be a little surprised at the march of intellect 
among our neighbors across the Channel, and at the kind of 
consideration in which they hold their religion. Here is a man 
who seizes upon saints and angels, merely to put sentiments in 
their mouths which might suit a nymph of Drury Lane. He 
shows heaven, in order that he may carry debauch int6 it ; and 
avails himself of the most sacred and sublime parts of our 
creed as a vehicle for a scene painter's skill, or an occasion for 
a handsome actress to wear a new dress. 

M. Dumas's piece of " Kean " is not quite so sublime ; it 
was brought out by the author as a satire upon the French 
critics, who, to their credit be it. spoken, had generally attacked 



FRENCH DRAMAS AND MELODRAMAS. 



*57 



him, and was intended by him, and received by the public, as 
a faithful portraiture of EngHsh manners. As such, it merits 
special observation and praise. In the first act you find a 
Countess and an Ambassadress, whose conversation relates 
purely to the great actor. All the ladies in London are in love 
with him, especially the two present. As for the Ambassadress, 
she prefers him to her husband (a matter of course in all French 
plays), and to a more seducing person still — no less a person 
than the Prince of Wales ! who presently waits on the ladies, 
joins in their conversation concerning Kean. " This man," 
says his Royal Highness, " is the very pink of fashion. Brum- 
mell is nobody when compared to him ; and I myself only an 
insignificant private gentleman. He has a reputation among 
ladies, for which I sigh in vain ; and spends an income twice 
as great as mine." This admirable historic touch at once paints 
the actor and the Prince ; the estimation in which the one was 
held, and the modest economy for which the other was so 
notorious. 

Then we have Kean, at a place called the Trou de Charbon^ 
the " Coal Hole," where, to the edification of the public, he 
engages in a fisty combat with a notorious boxer. This scene 
was received by the audience vvith loud exclamations of delight, 
and commented on, by the journals, as a faultless picture of 
English manners. " The Coal Hole " being on the banks of 
the Thames, a nobleman — Lord Melboiim ! — has chosen the 
tavern as a rendezvous for a gang of pirates, who are to have 
their ship in waiting, in order to carry off a young lady with 
whom his lordship is enamored. It need not be said that 
Kean arrives at the nick of time, saves the innocent Meess 
An?ia, and exposes the infamy of the Peer. A violent tirade 
against noblemen ensues, and Lord Melbourn slinks away, 
disappointed, to meditate revenge. Kean's triumphs continue 
through all the acts ; the Ambassadress falls madly in love 
with him ; the Prince becomes furious at his ill success, and 
the Ambassador dreadfully jealous. They pursue Kean to his 
dressing-room at the theatre ; where, unluckily, the Ambas- 
sadress herself has taken refuge. Dreadful quarrels ensue ; 
the tragedian grows suddenly mad upon the stage, and so 
cruelly insults the Prince of Wales that his Royal Highness 
determines to send him to Botaiiy Bay. His sentence, however, 
is commuted to banishment to New York ; whither, of course. 
Miss Anna accompanies him ; rewarding him, previously, with 
her hand and twenty thousand a year ! 

This wonderful performance was gravely received and 

17 



258 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

admired by the people of Paris : the piece was considered to 
be decidedly moral because the popular candidate was made 
to triumph throughout, and to triumph in the most virtuous 
manner ; for, according to the French code of morals, success 
among women is, at once, the proof and the reward of virtue. 

The sacred personage introduced in Dumas' play behind a 
cloud, figures bodily in the piece of the Massacre of the In- 
nocents^ represented at Paris last year. She appears under a 
different name, but the costume is exactly that of Carlo Dolce's 
Madonna ; and an ingenious fable is arranged, the interest of 
which hangs upon the grand Massacre of the Innocents, per- 
petrated in the fifth act. One of the chief characters is j^ean 
le Frecurseiir, who threatens woe to Herod and his race, and is 
beheaded by the orders of that sovereign. 

In the Festin de Balt/iazar, we are similarly introduced lo 
Daniel, and the first scene is laid by the waters of Babylon, 
where a certain number of captive Jews are seated in melan- 
choly postures ; a Babylonian officer enters, exclaiming, " Chan- 
tez nous quelques chansons de Jerusalem," and the request is 
refused in the language of the Psalm. Belshazzar's Feast is 
given in a grand tableau, after Martin's picture. That painter, 
in like manner, furnished scenes for the Deluge. Vast numbers 
of schoolboys and children are brought to see these pieces ; the 
lower classes delight in them. The famous jfuif Errant, at 
the theatre of the Porte St. Martin, was the first of the kind, 
and its prodigious success, no doubt, occasioned the number of 
imitations which the other theatres have produced. 

The taste of such exhibitions, of course, every English per- 
son will question ; but we must remember the manners of the 
people among whom they are popular ; and, if I may be allowed 
to hazard such an opinion, there is, in every one of these 
Boulevard mysteries, a kind of rude moral. The Boulevard 
writers don't pretend to " tabernacles " and divine gifts, like 
Madame Sand and Dumas before mentioned. If they take a 
story from the sacred books, they garble it without mercy, and 
take' sad liberties with the text ; but they do not deal in de 
scriptions of the agreeably wicked, or ask pity and admiration 
for tender-hearted criminals and philanthropic murderers, as 
their betters do. Vice is vice on the Boulevard ; and it is fine 
to hear the audience, as a tyrant king roars out cruel sentences 
of death, or a bereaved mother pleads for the life of her child, 
making their remarks on the circumstances of the scene. *' Ah, 
le gredin ! " growls an indignant countryman. " Quel monstre ! " 
says a grisctte, in a fury. You see very fat old men crying 






PRENcn DRAMAS AND MELODRAMAS. 



259 



like babies ; and, like babies, sucking enormous sticks of 
barley-sugar. Actors and audience enter warmly into the 
illusion of the piece ; and so especiall}^ are the former affected, 
that at Franconi's, where the battles of the Empire are repre- 
sented, there is as regular gradation in the ranks of the mimic 
army as in the real imperial legions. After a man has served, 
with credit, for a certain number of years in the line, he is pro- 
moted to be an officer — an acting officer. If he conducts him- 
self well, he may rise to be a Colonel, or a General of Division •, 
if ill, he is degraded to the ranks again ; or, worse degradation 
of all, drafted into a regiment of Cossacks or Austrians. Cos- 
sacks is the lowest death, however ; nay, it is said that the men 
who perform these Cossack parts receive higher wages than 
the mimic grenadiers and old guard. .They will not consent to 
be beaten every night, even in play ; to be pursued in hundreds, 
by a handful of French ; to fight against their beloved Emperor. 
Surely there is fine hearty virtue in this, and pleasant childlike 
simplicity. 

So that while the drama of Victor Hugo, Dumas, and the 
enlightened classes, is profoundly immoral and absurd, the 
drama of the common people -is alDSurd, if you will, but good 
and right-hearted. 1 have made notes of one or two of these 
pieces, which all have good feeling and kindness in them, and 
which turn, as the reader will see, upon one or tv/o favorite 
points of popular morality. A drama that obtained a vast 
success at the Porte Saint Martin, was " La Duchesse de la 
Vauballiere." The Duchess is the daughter of a poor farmer, 
who was carried off in the first place, and then married by M. 
le Due de la Vauballiere, a terrible roue, the farmer's landlord, 
and the intimate friend of Philippe d'Orleans, the Regent of 
France. 

Now the Duke, in running away with the lady, intended to 
dispense altogether with ceremony, and make of Julie anything 
but his wife ; but Georges, her father, and one Morisseau, a 
notary, discovered him in his dastardly act, and pursued him to 
the very feet of the Regent, who compelled the pair to marry 
and make it up. 

Julie complies ; and though she becomes a Duchess, her 
heart remains faithful to her old flame, Adrian, the doctor ; and 
she declares that, beyond the ceremony, no sort of intimacy 
shall take place between her husband and herself. 

Then the Duke begins to treat her in the most ungentleman- 
like manner : he abuses her in every possible way ; he intro- 
duces improper characters into her house ; and, finally, becomes 



26o THE PAklS SKETCH BOOJ^. 

so disgusted with her, that he determines to make away with 
her altogether. 

For this purpose, he sends forth into the highways and 
seizes a doctor, bidding him, on pain of death, to write a poi- 
sonous prescription for Madame la Duchesse. She swallows the 
potion ; and O horror ! the doctor turns out to be Dr. Adrian ; 
whose woe may be imagined, upon finding that he has been thus 
committing murder on his true love ! 

Let not the reader, however, be alarmed as to the fate of 
the heroine ; no heroine of a tragedy ever yet died in the third 
act ; and, accordingly, the Duchess gets up perfectly well 
again in the fourth, through the instrumentality of Morisseau, 
the good lawyer. 

And now it is that vice begins to be really punished. The 
Duke, who, after killing his wife, thinks it necessary to retreat, 
and take refuge in Spain, is tracked to the borders of that 
country by the virtuous notary, and there receives such a lesson 
as he will never forget to his dying day. 

Morisseau, in the first instance, produces a deed (signed by 
his Holiness the Pope), which annuls the marriage of the Duke 
de la Vauballiere ; then another deed, by which it is proved 
that he* was not the eldest son of old La Vauballiere, the former 
duke ; then another deed, by which he shows that old La 
Vauballiere (who seems to have been a disreputable old fellow) 
was a bigamist, and that, in consec^ence, the present man, 
styling himself Duke, is illegitimate ; and, finally, Morisseau 
brings forward another document, which proves that the regular 
Duke is no other than Adrian, the doctor ! 

Thus it is that love, law, and physic combined, triumph 
over the horrid machinations of this star-and-gartered libertine. 

" Hermann ITvrogne " is another piece of the same order ; 
and though not very refined, yet possesses considerable merit. 
As in the case of the celebrated Captain Smith of Halifax, who 
"took to drinking ratafia, and thought of poor Miss Bailey," — 
a woman and the bottle have been the cause of Hermann's 
ruin. Deserted by his mistress, who has been seduced from 
him by a base Italian count, Hermann, a German artist, gives 
himself entirely up to liquor and revenge : but when he finds 
that force, and not infidelity, have been the cause of his mis- 
tress's ruin, the reader can fancy the indignant ferocity with 
which he pursues the infame ravisseur. A scene, which is 
really full of spirit, and excellently well acted, here ensues ! 
Hermann proposes to the Count, on the eve of their duel, that 
the survivor should bind himself to espouse the unhappy Marie j 



FRENCB DkAMAS AND M^LODkAMAS. 261 

but the Count declares himself to be already married, and the 
student, finding a duel impossible (for his object was to restore, 
at all events, the honor of Marie), now only thinks of his re- 
venge, and murders the Count. Presently, two parties of men 
enter Hermann's apartment: one is a company of students, 
who bring him the news that he has obtained the prize of paint- 
ing ; the other the policemen, who carry him to prison, to 
suffer the penalty of murder. 

I could mention many more plays in which the popular 
morality is similarly expressed. The seducer, or rascal of the 
piece, is always an aristocrat — a wicked count, or licentious 
marquis, who is brought to condign punishment just before the 
fall of the curtain. And too good reason have the French 
people had to lay such crimes to the charge of the aristocracy, 
who are expiating now, on the stage, the wrongs which they did 
a hundred years since. The aristocracy is dead now ; but the 
theatre lives upon traditions ; and don't let us be too scornful 
at such simple legends as are handed down by the people from 
race to race. Vulgar prejudice against the great it may be ; 
but prejudice against the great is only a rude expression of 
sympathy with the poor ; long-, therefore, may fat epiciers blub- 
ber over mimic woes, and honest proletaires shake their fists, 
shouting — " Gredin, sceMrat, monstre de marquis ! " and such 
republican cries. 

Remark, too, another development of this same popular 
feeling of dislike against men in power. What a number of 
plays and legends have we (the writer has submitted to the 
public, in the preceding pages, a couple of specimens ; one of 
French, and the other of Polish origin,) in which that great and 
powerful aristocrat, the Devil, is made to be miserably tricked, 
humiliated, and disappointed ? A play of this class, which, 
in the midst ol; all its absurdities and claptraps, had much of 
good in it, was called " Le Maudit des Mers." Le Maudit is 
a Dutch captain, who, in the midst of a storm, while his crew 
were on their knees at prayers, blasphemed and drank punch ; 
but what was his astonishment at beholding an archangel with 
a sword all covered with flaming resin, who told him that as he, 
in his hour of danger, was too daring, or too wicked, to utter a 
prayer, he never should cease roaming the seas until he could 
find some being who would pray to heaven for him ! 

Once only, in a hundred years, was the skipper allowed to 
land for this purpose ; and this piece runs through four cen- 
turies, in as many acts, describing the agonies and unavail- 
:ng attempts of the miserable Dutchman. Willing to go 



262 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

any lengths in order to obtain his prayer, he, in the second 
act, betrays a Virgin of the Sun to a follower of Pizarro : and, 
in the third, assassinates the heroic William of Nassau ; but 
ever before the dropping of the curtain, the angel and sword 
make their appearance :— -" Treachery," says the spirit, " cannot 
lessen thy punishment ; — crime will not obtain thy release ! — 
A la me?- f a la mer /" and the poor devil returns to the ocean, 
to be lonely, and tempest-tossed, and sea-sick for a hundred 
years more. 

But his woes are destined to end with the fourth act. Hav- 
ing landed in America, where the peasants on the sea-shore, all 
dressed in Italian costumes, are celebrating, in a quadrille, the 
victories of Washington, he is there lucky enough to find a 
young girl to pray for him. Then the curse is removed, the 
punishment is over, and a celestial vessel, with angels on the 
decks and " sweet little cherubs " fluttering about the shrouds 
and the poop, appear to receive him. 

This piece was acted at Franconi's, where, for once, an 
angel-ship was introduced in place of the usual horsemanship. 

One must not forget to mention here, how the English na- 
tion is satirized by our neighbors ; who have some droll tradi- 
tions regarding us. In one of the little Christmas pieces pro- 
duced at the Palais Royal (satires upon the follies of the past 
twelve months, on which all the small theatres exhaust their 
wit), the celebrated flight of Messrs. Green and Monck Mason 
was parodied, and created a good deal of laughter at the ex- 
pense of John Bull. Two English noblemen, Milor Cricri and 
Milor Hanneton, appear as descending from a balloon, and one 
of them communicates to the public the philosophic observa- 
tions which were made in the course of his aerial tour. 

"On leaving Vauxhall," says his lordship, "we drank a 
bottle of Madeira, as a health to the friends from whom we 
parted, and crunched a few biscuits to support nature during 
the hours before lunch. In two hours we arrived at Canterbury, 
enveloped in clouds : lunch, bottled porter : at Dover, carried 
several miles in a tide of air, bitter cold, cherry-brandy ; crossed 
over the Channel safely, and thought with pity of the poor 
people who were sickening in the steam-boats below: more 
bottled porter: over Calais, dinner, roast-beef of Old England; 
near Dunkirk, — night falling, lunar rainbow, brandy-and-water ; 
night confoundedly thick ; supper, nightcap of rum-punch, and 
so to bed. The sun broke beautifully through the morning 
mist, as we boiled the kettle and took our breakfast over Co- 
logne. In a few more hours we concluded this memorable 
voyage, and landed safely at Weilburg, in good time for dinner." 



FRENCH DRAMAS AND MELODRAMAS. 263 

The joke here is smart enough ; but our honest neighbors 
make many better, when they are quite unconscious of the fun. 
Let us leave plays, for a moment, for poetry, and take an in- 
stance of French criticism, concerning England, from the works 
of a famous French exquisite and man of letters. The hero of 
the poem addresses his mistress — 

Londres, tu le sais trop, en fait de capitale, 
Est-ce que fit le ciel de plus froid et plus pale, 
C'est la ville du gaz, des marins, du brouillard ; 
On s'y couche a minuit, et Ton s'y leve tard ; 
Ses raouts taut vantes ne sont qu'une boxade, 
Sur ses grands quais jamais echelle ou serenade, 
Mais de volumineux bourgeois pris de porter 
Qui passent sans lever le front a Westminster; 
Et n'etait sa foret de mats pergant la brume, 
Sa tour dont a minuit le vieil ceil s'allume. 
Et tes deux yeux, Zerline, illumines bicn plus, 
Je dirais que, ma foi, des romans que j'ai lus, 
11 n'en est pas uu seul, plus lourd, plus lethargique 
Que cette nation qu'on nomme Britannique ! 

The writer of the above lines (which let any man who can trans- 
late) is Monsieur Roger de Beauvoir, a gentleman who actually 
lived many months in England, as an attache to the embassy of 
M. de Polignac. He places the heroine of his tale in a/<?///re- 
duit pres le Strand^ " with a green and fresh jalousie, and a 
large blind, let down all day ; you fancied you were entering a 
bath of Asia, as soon as you had passed the perfumed threshold 
of this charming retreat ! " He next places her — 

Dans un square ecarte, morne en couverte de givre, 
Ou se cache un hotel, aux vieux lions de cuivre ; 

and the hero of the tale, a young French poet, who is in Lon- 
don, is truly unhappy in that village. 

Arthur desseche et meurt. Dans la ville da Sterne, 
Rien qu'en voyant le peuple il a le mal de mer ; 
II n'aime ni le Pare, gai comme une citerne, 
Ni le tir au pigeon, ni le soda-water* 

Liston ne le fait plus sourciller ! II rumine 
Sur les trottoirs du Strand, droit comme un echiquier, 
Contre le peuple anglais, les negres, la vermine, 
Et les mille cokneys du peuple boutiquier, 

Contre tons les bas-bleus, contre les patissi^res, 
Les parieurs d' Epsom, le gin, le parlement, 
La qtiaterly, le roi, la pluie et les libraires, 
Dont il ne touche plus, helas ! un sou d'argent ! 

Et chaque gentleman lui dit : L'heureux poete ! 



The Italics are the author's own. 



264 '^^^ PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

"L'heureux pobte " indeed! I question if a poet in this 
wide world is so happy as M. de Beauvoir, or has made such 
wonderful discoveries. " The bath of Asia, with green jalou- 
sies," in which the lady dwells ; " the old hotel, with copper lions 
in a lonely square ; " — were ever such things heard of, or im- 
agined, but by a Frenchman ? The sailors, the negroes, the 
vermin, whom he meets in the street, — how great and happy 
are all these discoveries ! Liston no longer makes the happy 
poet frown ; and '^gin," "cokneys," and the '' quaterly " have 
not the least effect upon him ! And this gentleman has lived 
many months amongst us ; admires Williaf?t S/takspcar, the 
"grave et vieux proph^te," as he calls him, and never, for 
an instant, doubts that his description contains anything ab- 
surd ! 

I don't know whether the great Dumas has passed any time 
in England ; but liis plays show a similar intimate knowledge 
of our habits. Thus in Kean the stage-manager is made to 
come forward and address the pit, with a speech beginning, 
^^ My Lords and Gaitle>nm ;^' and a company of Englishwomen 
are introduced (at the memorable "Coal Hole"), and they all 
y^^TiX phiaforcs ; as if the British female were in the invariable 
habit of wearing this outer garment, or slobbering her gown 
without it. There was another celebrated piece, enacted some 
years since, upon the subject of Queen Caroline, where our late 
adored sovereign, George, was made to play a most despicable 
part ; and where Signor Eergami fought a duel with Lord Lon- 
donderry. In the last act of this play, the Plouse of Lords was 
represented, and Sir Brougham made an eloquent speech in the 
Queen's favor. Presently the shouts of the mob were heard 
without ; from shouting they proceed to pelting ; and pasteboard- 
brickbats and cabbages came flying among the representatives 
of our liereditary legislature. At this unpleasant juncture, Sri 
Ifardmge, the Secretary-at-War, rises and calls in the military ; 
the act ends in a general row, and the ignominious fall of Lord 
Liverpool, laid low by a brickbat from the mob t 

The description of these scenes is, of course, quite incapable 
of conveying any notion of their general effect. You must have 
the solemnity of the actors, as they Meess and Milor one an- 
other, and the perfect gravity and good faith with which the 
audience listen to them. Our stage PVenchman is the old Mar- 
quis, with sword, and pig-tail, and spangled court coat. The 
Englishman of the French theatre, has, invariably, a red wig, 
and almost always leather-gaiters, and a long white upper Ben- 
jamin, 



MEDITATIONS AT VERSAILLES. 



265 



And to conclude this catalogue of blunders : in the famous 
piece of the " Naufrage de la Meduse," the first act is laid on 
board an English ship-of-war, all the officers of which appeared 
in light blue or green coats (the lamp-light prevented our dis- 
tinguishing the color accurately), and top-boots ! 

* # * * # 

Let us not attempt to deaden the force of this tremendous 
blow by any more remarks. The force of blundering can go 
no further. Would a Chinese playwright or painter have 
stranger notions about the barbarians than our neighbors, who 
are separated from us but by two hours of salt water ? 



MEDITATIONS AT VERSAILLES. 

The palace of Versailles has been turned into a bric-a-brac 
shop of late years, and its time-honored walls have been covered 
with many thousand yards of the worst pictures that eye ever 
looked on. I don't know how many leagues of battles and 
sieges the unhappy visitor is now obliged to march through, 
amidst a crowd of chattering Paris cockneys, who are never 
tired of looking at the glories of the Grenadier Fran^ais ; to the 
chronicling of whose deeds this old palace of the old kings is now 
altogether devoted. A whizzing, screaming steam-engine rushes 
hither from Paris, bringing shoals of hadauds in its wake. The 
old coucous are all gone, and their place knows them no longer. 
Smooth asphaltum terraces, tawdry lamps, and great hideous 
Egyptian obelisks, have frightened them away from the pleasant 
station they used to occupy under the trees of the Champs 
Elysdes ; and though the old coucous were just the most uncom- 
fortable vehicles that human ingenuity ever constructed, one 
can't help looking back to the days of their existence with a 
tender regret ; for there was pleasure then in the little trip of 
three leagues : and who ever had pleasure in a railroad journey ? 
Does any reader of this venture to say that, on such a voyage, 
he ever dared to be pleasant ? Do the most hardened stokers 
joke with one another ? I don't believe it. Look into every 
single car of the train, and you will see that every single face 
is solemn. They take their seats gravely, and are silent, for 



a66 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

the most part, during the journey; they dare not look outer 
window, for fear of being blinded by the smoke that comes 
whizzing by, or of losing their heads in one of the windows of 
the down train ; they ride for miles in utter damp and darkness : 
through awful pipes of brick, that have been run pitilessly 
through the bowels of gentle mother earth, the cast-iron Frank- 
enstein of an engine gallops on, puffing and screaming. Does 
any man pretend to say that he enjoys the journey ? — he might 
as well say that he enjoyed having his haircut; he bears it, 
but that is all : he will not allow the world to laugh at him, for 
any exhibition of slavish fear ; and pretends, therefore, to be at 
his ease ; but he is afraid : nay, ought to be, under the circum- 
stances. I am sure Hannibal or Napoleon would, were they 
locked suddenly into a car ; there kept close prisoners for a 
certain number of hours, and whirled along at this dizzy pace. 
You can't stop, if you would : — you may die, but you can't stop ; 
the engine may explode upon the road, and up you go along 
with it; or, may be a bolter, and take a fancy to go down a 
hill, or into a river : all this you must bear, for the privilege 
of travelling twenty miles an hour. 

This little journey, then, from Paris to Versailles, that used 
to be so merry of old, has lost its pleasures since the disappear- 
ance of the coiicous ; and I would as lief have for companions 
the statues that lately took a coach from the bridge opposite 
the Chamber of Deputies, and stepped out in the court of Ver- 
sailles, as the most part of the people who now travel on the 
railroad. The stone figures are not a whit more cold and si- 
lent than these persons, who used to be, in the old coucoiis, so 
talkative and merry. The prattling grisette and her swain from 
the Ecole de Droit; the huge Alsacian carabinier, grimly smil- 
ing under his sandy mustaches and glittering brass helmet ; 
the jolly nurse, in red calico, who had been to Paris to show 
mamma her darling Lolo, or Auguste ; — what merry compan- 
ions used one to find squeezed into the crazy old vehicles that 
formerly performed the journey ! But the age of horseflesh is 
gone — that of engineers, economists, and calculators has suc- 
ceeded ; and the pleasure of coucoudoDi is extinguished forever. 
Why not mourn over it, as Mr. Burke did over his cheap 
defence of nations and unbought grace of life ; that age of 
chivalry, which he lamented, Apropos of a trip to Versailles, 
some half a century back ? 

Without stopping to discuss (as might be done, in rather a 
neat and successful manner) whether the age of chivalry was 
cheap or dear, and whether, in the time of the unbought grace 



MEDITATIONS AT VERSAILLES, 267 

of life, there was not more bribery, robbery, villany, tyranny, 
and corruption, than exists even in our own happy days, — let 
us make a few moral and historical remarks upon the town of 
Versailles ; where, between railroad and concou, we are surely 
arrived by this time. 

The town is, certainly, the most moral of towns. You pass 
from the railrcad station through a long, lonely suburb, with 
dusty rows of stunted trees on either side, and some few miser- 
able beggars, idle boys, and ragged old women under them. 
Behind the trees are gaunt, mouldy houses ; palaces once, 
where (in the days of the unbought grace of life) the cheap de- 
fence of nations gambled, ogled, swindled, intrigued ; whence 
high-born duchesses used to issue, in old times, to act as cham- 
bermaids to lovely Du Barri ; and mighty princes rolled away, 
in gilt caroches, hot for the honor of lighting his Majesty to 
bed, or of presenting his stockings when he rose, or of holding 
his napkin when he dined. Tailors, chandlers, tinmen, wretched 
hucksters, and greengrocers, are now established in the man- 
sions of the old peers ; small children are yelling at the doors, 
with mouths besmeared with bread and treacle ; damp rags are 
hanging out of every one of the windows, steaming in the sun ; 
oyster-shells, cabbage stalks,'broken crockery, old papers, lie 
basking in the same cheerful light. A solitary water-cart goes 
jingling down the wide pavement, and spirts a feeble refresh- 
ment over the dusty, thirsty stones. 

After pacing for some time through such dismal streets, we 
deboucher on the grande place ; and before us lies the palace 
dedicated to all the glories of France. In the midst of the 
great lonely plain this famous residence of King Louis looks 
low and mean. — Honored pile ! Time was when tall muske- 
teers and gilded body-guards allowed none to pass the gate. 
Fifty years ago, ten thousand drunken women from Paris broke 
through the charm ; and now a tattered commissioner will con- 
duct you through it for a penny, and lead you up to the sacred 
entrance of the palace. 

We will not examine all the glories of France, as here they 
are portrayed in pictures and marble : catalogues are written 
about these miles of canvas, representing all the revolutionary 
battles, from Valmy to Waterloo, — all the triumphs of Louis 
XIV. — all the mistresses of his successor — and all the great 
men who have flourished since the French empire began. 
Military heroes are most of these — fierce constables in shining 
steel, marshals in voluminous wigs, and brave grenadiers in 
bearskin caps ; some dozens of whom gained crowns, principal- 



268 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOIC, 

ities, dukedoms ; some hundreds, plunder and epaulets ; some 
millions, death in African sands, or in icy Russian plains, under 
the guidance, and for the good, of that arch-hero. Napoleon. 
By far the greater part of " all the glories " of France (as of 
most other countries) is made up of these military men : and a 
fine satire it is on the cowardice of mankind, that they pay such 
an extraordinary homage to the virtue called courage ; filling 
their history-books with tales about it, and nothing but it. 

Let them disguise the place, however, as they will, and plaster 
the walls with bad picture* as they please, it will be hard to 
think of any family but one, as one traverses this vast gloomy 
edifice. It has not been humbled to the ground, as a certain 
palace of Babel was of yore ; but it is a monument of fallen 
pride, not less awful, and would afford matter for a whole 
library of sermons. The cheap defence of nations expended a 
thousand millions in the erection of this magnificent dwelling- 
place. Armies were employed, in the intervals of their warlike 
labors, to level hills, or pile them up ; to turn rivers, and to 
build aqueducts, and transplant woods, and construct smooth 
terraces, and long canals. A vast garden grew up in a wilder- 
ness, and a stupendous palace in the garden, and a stately city 
round the palace : the city was peopled with parasites, who 
daily came to do worship before the creator of these wonders — 
the Great King. " Dieu seul est grand," said courtly Massil- 
lon ; but next to him, as the prelate thought, was certainly 
Louis, his vicegerent here upon earth — God's lieutenant- 
governor of the world, — before whom courtiers used to fall on 
their knees, and shade their eyes, as if the light of his counte- 
nance, like the sun, which shone supreme in heaven, the type 
of him, was too dazzling to bear. 

Did ever the sun shine upon such a king before, in such a 
palace ? — or, rather, did such a king ever shine upon the sun t 
When Majesty came out of his chamber, in the midst of his 
superhuman splendors, viz. : in his cinnamon-colored coat, em- 
broidered with diamonds ; his pyramid of a wig ; * his red-heeled 
shoes, that lifted him four inches from the ground, " that he 
scarcely seemed to touch;" when he came out, blazing upon 
the dukes and duchesses that waited his rising, — what could the 
latter do, but cover their eyes, and wink, and tremble ? And 
did he not himself believe, as he stood there, on his high heels, 
under his ambrosial periwig, that there was something in him 
more than man — something above Fate ? 

* It is fine to think that, in the days of his youth, his Majesty Louis XIV. used to 
fvwdcr his vuig with gold-dust. 



MED IT A TIONS A T VERSA ILLES. 269 

This, doubtless, was he fain to believe ; and if, on very fine 
days, from his terrace before his gloomy palace of Saint Ger- 
mains, he could catch a glimpse, in the distance, of a certain 
white spire of St. Denis, where his race lay buried, he would 
say to his courtiers, with a sublime condescension, " Gentlemen, 
you must remember that I, too, am mortal." Surely the lords 
in waiting could hardly think him serious, and vowed that his 
Majesty always loved a joke. However, mortal or not, the 
sight of that sharp spire wounded his Majesty's eyes ; and is 
said, by the legend, to have caused the building of the palace 
of Babel- Versailles. 

In the year 1 681, then, the great king, with bag and bag- 
gage, — with guards, cooks, chamberlains, mistresses, Jesuits, 
gentlemen, lackeys, Fenelons, Molieres, Lauzuns, Bossuets, 
Villars, Villeroys, Louvois, Colberts, — transported himself to 
his new palace : the old one being left for James of England 
and Jaquette his wife, when their time should come. And 
when the time did come, and James sought his brother's king- 
dom, it is on record that Louis hastened to receive and console 
him, and promised to restore, incontinently, those islands from 
which the amaille had turned him. Between brothers such a 
gift was a trifle ; and the courtiers said to one another rever- 
ently,* "The Lord said unto my Lord, Sit thou on my right 
hand, until I make thine enemies thy footstool." There was 
no blasphemy in the speech : on the contrary, it was gravely 
said, by a faithful believing man, who thought it no shjme to 
the latter, to compare his Majesty with God Almighty. In- 
deed, the books of the time will give one a strong idea how 
general was this Louis-worship. I have just been looking at 
one, which was written by an honest Jesuit andprote'ge' of Pere 
la Chaise, who dedicates a book of medals to the august Infants 
of France, which does, indeed, go almost as far in print. He 
calls our famous monarch " Louis le Grand : — i, I'invincible ; 
2, le sage ; 3, le conquerant; 4, la merveille de son siecle ; 5, 
la terreurde ses ennemis ; 6, I'amourde ses peuples ; 7, I'arbi- 
tre de la paix et de la guerre ; 8, I'admiration de I'univers ; 9, 
et digne d'en etre le maitre ; 10, le modele d'un he'ros acheve ; 
II, digne de Timmortalite', et de la v^ne'ration de tons les 
siecles ! " 

A pretty Jesuit declaration, truly, and a good honest judg- 
ment upon the great king! In thirty years more — i. The in- 
vincible had been beaten a vast number of times. 2. The 

* I think it is in the amusing "Memoirs of Madame de Cr^qui " (a forgery, but a work 
j:ernarkable for its learning find accuracy) that, the above anecdote is relatedi^ 



270 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

sage was the puppet of an artful old woman, who was the pup- 
pet of more artful priests. 3. The coiiqueror had quite for- 
gotten his early knack of conquering. 5. The terror of his 
enemies (for 4, the marvel of his age, we pretermit, it being a 
loose term, that may apply to any person or thing) was now 
terrified by his enemies in turn. 6. The love of his people was 
as heartily detested by them as scarcely any other monarch, 
not even his great-grandson, has been, before or since. 7. The 
arbiter of peace and war was fain to send superb ambassadors 
to kick their heels in Dutch shopkeepers' antechambers. 8, is 
again a general term. 9. The man fit to be master of the 
universe, was scarcely master of his own kingdom. 10. The 
finished hero was all but finished, in a very commonplace and 
vulgar way, And 11. The man worthy of immortality was just 
at the point of death, without a friend to soothe or deplore him ; 
only withered old Maintenon to utter prayers at his bedside, 
and croaking Jesuits to prepare him,"*^ with heaven knows what 
wretched tricks and mummeries, for his appearance in that 
Great Republic that lies on the other side of the grave. In 
the course of his fourscore splendid miserable years, he never 
had but one friend, and he ruined and left her. Poor la Val- 
liere, what a sad tale is yours ! " Look at this Galerie des 
Glaces," cries Monsieur Vatout, staggering with surprise at the 
appearance of the room, two hundred and forty-two feet long, 
and forty high. " Here it was that Louis displayed all the 
grandeur of royalty ; and such was the splendor of his court, 
and the luxury of the times, that this immense room could 
hardly contain the crowd of courtiers that pressed around the 
monarch." Wonderful ! wonderful ! Eight thousand four hun- 
dred and sixty square feet of courtiers ! Give a square yard 
to each, and you have a matter of three thousand of them. 
Think of three thousand courtiers per day, and all the chopping 
and changing of them for near forty years : some of them dying, 
some getting their wishes, and retiring to their provinces to 
enjoy their plunder ; some disgraced, and going home to pine 
away out of the light of the sun ;t new ones perpetually arriv- 
ing, — pushing, squeezing, for their place, in the crowded Galerie 
des Glaces. A quarter of a million of noble countenances, at 
the very least, must those glasses have reflected. Rouge, dia- 
monds, ribbons, patches, upon the faces of smiling ladies : tow- 
ering periwigs, sleek-shaven crowns, tufted mustaches, scars, 

* They made a Jesuit of him on his death-bed. 

t Saint Simon's account of Lauzun, in disgrace, is admirably facetious and pathetic ; 
Lauzun's regrets are as monstrous of those of Raleigh when deprived of the siglit of hif 
JV^prable Queen and Mistress, EliiabeUv 



MEDITA TIONS A T VERSAILLES. 



n 



and grizzled whiskers, worn by ministers, priests, dandies, and 
grim old commanders. — So many faces, O ye gods ! and every 
one of them lies ! So many tongues, vowing devotion and re- 
spectful love to the great king in his six-inch wig ; and only 
poor La Valliere's amongst them all which had a word of truth 
for the dull ears of Louis of Bourbon. 

" Quand j'aurai de la peine aux Carmelites," says unhappy 
Louise, about to retire from these magnificent courtiers and 
their grand Galerie des Glaces, " je me souviendrai de ce que 
ces gens W m'ont fait souffrir ! " — A troop of Bossuets inveigh- 
ing against the vanities of courts could not preach such an 
affecting sermon. What years of anguish and wrong had the 
poor thing suffered, before these sad words came from her 
gentle lips ! How these courtiers have bowed and flattered, 
kissed the ground on which she trod, fought to have the honor 
of riding by her carriage, written sonnets, and called her god- 
dess ; who, in the days of her prosperity, was kind and bene- 
ficent, gentle and compassionate to all ; then (on a certain day, 
when it is whispered that his Majesty hath cast the eyes of his 
gracious affection upon another) behold three thousand cour- 
tiers are at the feet of the new divinity. — " O divine Athenais ! 
what blockheads have we been to worship any but you. — That 
a goddess ? — a pretty goddess forsooth ; — a witch, rather, who, 
for a while, kept our gracious monarch blind ! Look at her : 
the woman limps as she walks ; and, by sacred Venus, her 
mouth stretches almost to her diamond ear-rings ! " * The 
same tale may be told of many more deserted mistresses ; and 
fair Athenais de Montespan was to hear it of herself one day. 
Meantime, while La Valliere's heart is breaking, the model of 
a finished hero is yawning; as, on sjch paltry occasions, a 
finished hero should. Let her heart break : a plague upon her 
tears and repentance ; what right has she to repent ? Away 
with her to her convent. She goes, and the finished hero never 
sheds a tear. What a noble pitch of stoicism to have reached! 
Our Louis was so great, that the little woes of mean people 
were beyond him : his friends died, his mistresses left him ; 
his children, one by one, were cut off before his eyes, and 
great Louis is not moved in the slightest degree ! As how, 
indeed, should a god be moved ? 

I have often liked to think about this strange character in 
the world, who moved in it, bearing about a full belief in his 



* A pair of diamond ear-rings, given by the King to La Valli^re, caused much scandal ; 
aiid some lampoons are extant, which impugn the taste of Louis XIV. for loving » lady 
with such an enormous mouth. 



272 THE PAkIS SKE TCH JSOOK. 

own infallibility ; teaching his generals the art of war, his min- 
isters the science of government, his wits taste, his courtiers 
dress ; ordering deserts to become gardens, turning villages 
into palaces at a breath ; and indeed the august figure of the 
man, as he towers upon his throne, cannot fail to inspire one 
with respect and awe : — how grand those flowing locks appear ; 
how awful that sceptre ; how magnificent those flowing robes ! 
In Louis, surely, if any one, the majesty of kinghood is repre- 
sented. 

But a king is not every inch a king, for all the poet may 
say ; and it is curious to see how much precise majesty there 
is in that majestic figure of Ludovicus Rex. In the plate op- 
posite, we have endeavored to make the exact calculation. 
The idea of kingly dignity is equally strong in the two outer 
figures ; and you see, at once, that majesty is made out of the 
wig, the high-heeled shoes, and cloak, all fleurs-de-lis bespangled. 
As for the little lean, shrivelled, paunchy old man, of five feet 
two, in a jacket and breeches, there is no majesty in him at 
any rate ; and yet he has just stepped out of that very suit of 
clothes. Put the wig and shoes on him, and he is six feet 
high ; — the other fripperies, and he stands before you majestic, 
imperial, and heroic ! Thus do barbers and cobblers make the 
gods that we worship ; for do we not all worship him ? Yes ; 
though we all know him to be stupid, heartless, short, of doubt- 
ful personal courage, worship and admire him we must ; and 
have set up, in our hearts, a grand image of him, endowed 
with wit, magnanimity, valor, and enormous heroical stature. 

And what magnanimous acts are attributed to him ! or, 
rather, how differently do we view the actions of heroes and 
comirion men, and find that the same thing shall be a wonder- 
ful virtue in the former, which, in the latter, is only an ordinary 
act of duty. Look at yonder window of the king's chamber ; 
— one morning a royal cane was seen whirling out of it, and 
plumped among the courtiers and guard of honor below. King 
Louis had absolutely, and with his own hand, flung his own 
cane out of the window, "because," said he, " I won't demean 
myself by striking a gentleman ! " O miracle of magnanimity ! 
Lauzun was not caned, because he besought majesty to 1<eep 
his promise, — only imprisoned for ten years in Pignerol, along 
with banished Fouquet ; — and a pretty story is Fouquet's too. 

Out of the window the king's august head was one day 
thrust, when old Conde was painfully toiling up the steps of 
the court below. "•I>oni't hurry yourself, my cousin," cries 
Magnanimity ; " one who has to carry so many laurels cannot 



MEDITATIONS AT VERSAILLES. 273 

walk fast." At which all the courtiers, lackeys, mistresses^ 
chamberlains, Jesuits, and scullions, clasp their hands and 
burst into tears. Men are affected by the tale to this very day. 
For a century and three-quarters, have not all the books that 
speak of Versailles, or Louis Quatorze, told the story? — " Don't 
hurry yourself, my cousin ! " O admirable king and Christian ! 
what a pitch of condescension is here, that the greatest king of 
all the world should go for to say anything so kind, and really 
tell a tottering old gentleman, worn out with gout, age, and 
wounds, not to walk too fast ! 

What a proper fund of slavishness is there in the composi- 
tion of mankind, that histories like these should be found to 
interest and awe them. Till the world's end, most likely, this 
story will have its place in the history-books ; and unborn gen- 
erations will read it, and tenderly be moved by it. I am sure 
that Magnanimity went to bed that night, pleased and happy, 
intimately convinced that he had done an action of sublime 
virtue, and had easy slumbers and sweet dreams, — especially 
if he had taken a light supper, and not too vehemently attacked 
his en cas de nuit. 

That famous adventure, in which the en cas de fiuit was 
brought into use, for the sake of one Poquelin alias Moliere ; 
— how often has it been described and admired ? This Po- 
quelin, though king's valet-de-chambre, was by profession a 
vagrant; and as such, looked coldly on by the great lords of 
the palace, who refused to eat with him. Majesty hearing of 
this, ordered his en cas de nuit to be placed on the table, and 
positively cut off a wing with his own knife and fork for Poque- 
lin's use. O thrice happy Jean Baptiste ! The king has actually 
sat down with him cheek by jowl, had the liver-wing of a fowl, 
and given Moliere the gizzard ; put his imperial legs under the 
same mahogany {sub iisdem trabihus). A man, after such an 
honor, can look for little else in this world : he has tasted the 
utmost conceivable earthly happiness, and has nothing to do 
now but to fold his arms, look up to heaven, and sing " Nunc 
dimittis" and die. 

Do not let us abuse poor old Louis on account of this mon- 
strous pride ; but only lay it to the charge of the fools who 
believed and wc#shipped it. If, honest man, he believed him- 
self to be almost a god, it was only because thousands of 
people had told him so — people only half liars, too ; who did, 
in the depths of their slavish respect, admire the man almost 
as much as they said they did. If, when he appeared in his 
five-hundred-million coat, as he is said to have done, before the 

18 



274 ^-^^-^ ^^ ^^-^ ^^^ ^^^^ ^ ^ <^^- 

Siamese ambassadors, the courtiers began to shade their eyes 
and long for parasols, as if this Boiirbonic sun was too hot for 
them ; indeed, it is no wonder that he should believe that there 
was something dazzling about his person : he had half a mil- 
lion of eager testimonies to this idea. Who was to tell him 
the truth ? — Only in the last years cf his life did trembling 
courtiers dare whisper to him, after much circumlocution, that 
a certain battle had been fought at a place called Blenheim, 
and that Eugene and Marlborough had stopped his long career 
of triumphs. 

"On n'est plus heureux a notre age," says the old man, to 
one of his old generals, welcoming Tallard after his defeat ; 
and he rewards him with honors, as if he had come from a 
victory. There is, if you will, something magnanimous in this 
welcome to his conquered general, this stout protest against 
Fate. Disaster succeeds disaster ; armies after armies march 
out to meet fiery Eugene and that dogged, fatal Englishman, 
and disappear in the smoke of the enemies' cannon. Even at 
Versailles you may almost hear it roaring at last ; but when 
courtiers, who have forgotten their god, now talk of quitting 
this grand temple of his, old Louis plucks up heart and will 
never hear of surrender. All th gold and silver at Versailles 
he melts, to find bread for his armies : all the jewels on his five- 
hundred million coat he pawns resolutely ; and, bidding Villars 
go and make the last struggle but one, promises, if his general 
is defeated, to place himself at the head of his nobles, and die 
King of France. Indeed, after a man, for sixty years, has 
been performing the part of a hero, some of the real heroic 
stuff must have entered into his composition, whether he would 
or not. When the great Elliston was enacting the part of 
King George the Fourth, in the play of " The Coronation," at 
Drury Lane, the galleries applauded very loudly his suavity and 
majestic demeanor, at which Elliston, inflamed by the popular 
loyalty (and by some fermented liquor in which, it is said, he 
was in the habit of indulging), burst into tears, and spreading 
out his arms, exclaimed : " Bless ye, bless ye, my people ! " 
Don't let us laugh at his Ellistonian majesty, nor at the people 
who clapped hands and yelled " bravo ! " in praise of him. 
The tipsy old manager did really feel that lj|e was a hero at 
that moment ; aL^d the people, wild with delight and attach- 
ment for a magnificent coat and breeches, surely were uttering 
the true sentiments of loyalty : which consists in reverencing 
these and other articles of costume. In this fifth act, then, of 
his long royal drama, old Louis performed his part excellently ; 



MEDITA TIONS A T VERSAILLES. 



275 



and when the curtain drops upon him, he lies, dressed majestic- 
ally, in a becoming kingly attitude, as a king should. 

The king his successor has not left, at Versailles, half so 
much occasion for moralizing ; perhaps the neighboring Pare 
aux Cerfs would afford better illustrations of his reign. The 
life of his great grandsire, the Grand Llama of France, seems 
to have frightened Louis the well-beloved : who understood 
that loneliness is one of the necessary conditions of divinity, 
and being of a jovial, companionable turn, aspired not beyond 
manhood. Only in the matter of ladies did he surpass his 
predecessor, as Solomon did David, War he eschewed, as his 
grandfather bade him ; and his simple taste found little in this 
world to enjoy beyond the mulling of chocolate and the frying 
of pancakes. Look, here is the room called Laboratoire du 
Roi, where, with his own hands, he made his mistress's break- 
fast : — here is the little door through which, from her apart- 
ments in the upper story, the chaste Du Barri came stealing 
down to the arms of the weary, feeble, gloomy old man. But 
of women he was tired long since, and even pancake-frying 
had palled upon him. What had he to do, after forty years of 
reign ; — after having exhausted everything 1 Every pleasure 
that Dubois could invent for "his hot youth, or cunning Lebel 
could minister to his old age, was flat and stale ; used up to 
the very dregs : every shilling in the national purse had been 
squeezed out, by Pompadour and Du Barri and such brilliant 
ministers of state. He had found out the vanity of pleasure, 
as his ancestors had discovered the vanity of glory : indeed it 
was high time that he should die. And die he did ; and round 
his tomb, as round that of his grandfather before him, the 
starving people sang a dreadful chorus of curses, which were 
the only epitaphs for good or for evil that were raised to his 
memory. 

As for the courtiers — the knights and nobles, the unbought 
grace of life — they, of course, forgot him in one minute after 
his death, as the way is. When the king dies, the officers ap- 
pointed opens his chamber window, and calling out into the 
court below, Le Roi est ?norf, breaks his cane, takes another 
and waves it, exclaiming, Vive le Roi ! Straightway all the loyal 
nobles begin yelling Vive k Roi ! and the officer goes round 
solemnly and sets yonder great clock in the Cour de Marbre 
to the hour of the King's death. This old Louis had solemnly 
ordained ; but the Versailles clock was only set twice : there 
was no shouting of Vive le Roi ! when the successor of Louis 
XV. mounted to heaven to join his sainted family. 



276 THE PA RIS SKE TCH BOOK, 

Strange stories of the deaths of kings have always been 
very recreating and profitable to us : what a fine one is that of 
the death of Louis XV., as Madame Campan tells it. One 
night the gracious monarch came back ill from Trianon ; the 
disease turned out to be the small-pox ; so violent that ten 
people of those who had to enter his chamber caught the in- 
fection and died. The whole court flies from him ; only poor 
old fat Mesdames the King's daughters persist in remaining at 
his bedside, and praying for his soul's welfare. 

On the loth May, 1774, the whole court had assem- 
bled at the chateau ; the CEil de Boeuf was full. The Dau- 
phin had determined to depart as soon as the king had 
breathed his last. And it was agreed by the people of the 
stables, with those who watched in the king's room, that a 
lighted candle should be placed in a window and should be 
extinguished as soon as he had ceased to live. The candle 
was put out. At that signal, guards, pages, and squires 
mounted on horseback, and everything was made ready for de- 
parture. The Dauphin was with the Dauphiness, waiting to- 
gether for the news of the king's demise. An ifnmense noise, as 
if of thunder, was heard in the next roo7n ; it was the crowd of 
courtiers, who were deserting the dead king's apartment, in 
order to pay their court to the new power of Louis XVI. Ma- 
dame de Noailles entered, and was the first to salute the queen 
by her title of Queen of France, and begged their Majesties 
to quit their apartments, to receive the princes and great lords 
of the court desirous to pay their homage to the new sovereigns. 
Leaning on her husband's arm, a handkerchief to her eyes, in 
the most touching attitude, Marie Antoinette received these 
first visits. On quitting the chamber where the dead king lay, 
the Due de Villequier bade M. Anderville, first surgeon of the 
king, to open and embalm the body : it would have been cer- 
tain death to the surgeon. *' I am ready, sir," said he ; " but 
whilst I am operating, you must hold the head of the corpse : 
your charge demands it." The Duke went away without a 
word, and the body was neither opened nor embalmed. A few 
humble domestics and poor workmen watched by the remains, 
and performed the last offices to their master. The surgeons 
ordered spirits of wine to be poured into the coffin. 

They huddled the king's body into a post-chaise ; and in this 
deplorable equipage, with an escort of about forty men, Louis 
the well-beloved was carried, in the dead of night, from Ver- 
sailles to Saint Denis and then thrown into the tomb of the 
kings of France ! 



MEDITA TIONS A T VERSA ILLES. 277 

If any man is curious, and can get permission, he may 
mount to the roof of the palace, and see where Louis XVI. 
used royally to amuse himself, by gazing upon the doings of 
all the townspeople below with a telescope. Behold that bal- 
cony, where, one morning, he, his queen, and the little Dauphin 
stood, with Cromwell Grandison Lafayette by their side, who 
kissed her Majesty's hand, and protected her ; and then, lov- 
ingly surrounded by his people, the king got into a coach and 
came to Paris : nor did his Majesty ride much in coaches after 
that. 

There is a portrait of the king, in the upper galleries, clothed 
in red and gold, riding a fat horse, brandishing a sword, on 
which the word "Justice " is inscribed, and looking remarkably 
stupid and uncomfortable. You see that the horse will throw 
him at the very first fling ; and as for the sword, it never was 
made for such hands as his, which were good at holding a cork- 
screw or a carving-knife, but not clever at the management of 
weapons of war. Let those pity him who will : call him saint 
and martyr if you please ; but a martyr to what principle was he ? 
Did he frankly support either party in his kingdom, or cheat and 
tamper with both ? He might have escaped ; but he must have 
his supper : and so his family was butchered and his kingdom 
lost, and he had his bottle of Burgundy in comfort at Varennes. 
A single charge upon the fatal tenth of August, and the mon- 
archy might have been his once more ; but he is so tender- 
hearted, that he lets his friends be murdered before his eyes 
almost : or, at least, when he has turned his back upon his duty 
and his kingdom, and has skulked for safety into the reporter's 
box, at the National Assembly. There were hundreds of brave 
men who died that day, and were martyrs, if you will ; poor 
neglected tenth-rate courtiers, for the most part, who had for- 
gotten old slights and disappointments, and left their places 
of safety to come and die, if need were, sharing in the supreme 
hour of the monarchy. Monarchy was a great deal too hu- 
mane to fight along with these, and so left them to the pikes 
of Santerre and the mercy of the men of the Sections. But we 
are wandering a good ten miles from Versailles, and from the 
deeds which Louis XVI. performed there. 

He is said to have been such a smart journeyman black- 
smith, that he might, if Fate had not perversely placed a crown 
on his head, have earned a couple of louis every week by the 
making of locks and keys. Those who will, may see the work- 
shop where he employed many useful hours : Madame Elizabeth 
was at prayers meanwhile ; the queen was making pleasant 



2 7 S THE FA RIS SKE TCI/ B O OK. 

parties with her ladies ; Monsieur the Count d'Artois was 
learning to dance on the tight-rope ; and Monsieur de Provence 
was cultivating Teloqueiice du billet and studying his favorite 
Horace. It is said that each member of the august family 
succeeded remarkably well in his or her pursuits ; big Mon- 
sieur's little notes are still cited. At a minuet or sillabub, poor 
Antoinette was unrivalled; and Charles, on the tight-rope, was 
so graceful and so gentil, that Madame Saqui might envy him. 
The time only was out of joint. O cursed spite, that ever such 
harmless creatures as these were bidden to right it ! 

A walk to the little Trianon is both pleasing and moral : 
no doubt the reader has seen the pretty fantastical gardens 
which environ it ; the groves and temples ; the streams and 
caverns (whither, as the guide tells you, during the heat of 
summer, it was the custom of Marie Antoinette to retire, with 
her favorite, Madame de Lamballe) : the lake and Swiss village 
are pretty little toys, moreover ; and the cicerone of the place 
does not fail to point out tiie different cottages which surround 
the piece of water, and tell the names of the royal masquera- 
ders who inhabited each. In the long cottage, close upon the 
lake, dwelt the Seigneur du Village, no less a personage than 
Louis XV. ; Louis XVI,, the Dauphin, was the BailU ; near 
his cottage is that of Monseigneur the Count d'Artois, who was 
the Miller ; opposite lived the Prince de Conde, who enacted 
the part of Gamekeeper (or, indeed, any other role, for it does 
not signify much) ; near him was the Prince de Rohan, who 
was the Aumonier ; and yonder is the pretty little dairy, which 
was under the charge of the fair Marie Antoinette herself. 

I forget whether Monsieur the fat Count of Provence took 
any share of this royal masquerading ; but look at the names 
of the other six actors of the comedy, and it will be hard to 
find any person for whom Fate had such dreadful visitations in 
store. Fancy the party, in the days of their prosperity, here 
gathered at Trianon, and seated under the tall poplars by the 
lake, discoursing familiarly together: suppose, of a sudden, 
some conjuring Cagliostro of the time is introduced among 
them, and foretells to them the woes that are about to come. 
" You, Monsieur I'Aumonier, the descendant of a long hne of 
princes, the passionate admirer of that fair queen who sits by 
your side, shall be the cause of her ruin and your own,'* and 
shall die in disgrace and exile. You, son of the Conde's, shall 
live long enough to see your royal race overthrown, and shall 
die by the hands of a hangman. t You, oldest son of Saint 

* In the diamond-uecklacc affair. t He was found hanging in his own bedroom. 



MEDITATIONS AT VERSAILLES. 279 

Louis, shall perish by the executioner's axe ; that beautiful 
head, O Antoinette, the same ruthlesar blade shall sever." 
"They shall kill me first," says Lamballe, at the queen's side. 
"Yes, truly," replies the soothsayer, "for Fate prescribes ruin 
for your mistress and all who love her." * " And," cries Mon- 
sieur d'Artois, " do I not love my sister, too t I pray you not 
to omit me in your prophecies." 

To whom Monsieur Cagliostro says, scornfully, " You may 
look forward to fifty years of life, after most of these are laid 
in the grave. You shall be a king, but not die one ; and shall 
leave the crown only ; not the worthless head that shall wear 
it. Thrice shall you go into exile : you shall fly from the 
people, first, who would have no more of you and your race ; 
and you shall return home over half a million of human corpses 
that have been made for the sake of you, and of a tyrant as 
great as the greatest of your famil}^ Again driven away, your 
bitterest enemy shall bring you back. But the strong limbs of 
France are not to be chained by such a paltry yoke as you can 
put on her : you shall be a tyrant, but in will only ; and shall 
have a sceptre, but to see it robbed from your hand." 

" And pray. Sir Conjuror, who shall be the robber? " asked 
Monsieur the Count d'Artois/ 

***** 

This I cannot say, for here my dream ended. The fact is, 
I had fallen asleep on one of the stone-benches in the Avenue 
de Paris, and at this instant was awakened by a whirling of 
carriages and a great clattering of national guards, lancers and 
outriders, in red. His Majesty Louis Philippe was going to 
pay a visit to the palace ; which contains several pictures of his 
own glorious actions, and which has been dedicated, by him, to 
all the glories of France. 

* Among the many lovers that rumor gave to the queen, poor Ferstn is the most remai li- 
able. He seems to have entertained for lier a high and perfectly pure devotion. He was 
the chief agent in the luckless escap.e to Varennes ; was lurking in Paris during the time cf 
her captivity ; and was concerned in the many fruitless plots that were made for her rescue. 
Ferscn lived to be an old man, but died a dreadful and violent death. He was dragged 
from his carriage by the mob, in Stockholm, and murdered by them. 



END OF THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 



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Pelham, by Lord Lytton 20 

The Story of Ida 10 

Madcap Violet, by Wm. Black. .20 

The Little Pilgrim 10 

Kilmeny, by Wm. Black 20 

Whist, or Bumblepuppy? 10 

The Beautiful Wretch, Black. . . . 20 
Her Mother's Sin, by B. M. Clay.20 
Green Pastures and Piccadilly, 

by Wm. Black 20 

The Mysterious Island, by Jules 

Verne, Part 1 15 

The Mysterious Island, Part,II. .15 
The Mysterious Island, Part III. 15 
Tom Brown at Oxford, Part I. . . 15 
Tom Brown at Oxford, Part II. . 15 
Thicker than Water, by J. Payn,20 
In Silk Attire, by Wm. Black. . .20 
Scottish Chief G.Jane Porter, Pt.I.20 

Scottish Chiefs, Part II 20 

Willy Reilly, by Will Carleton. .20 
The Nautz Family, by Shelley.20 
Great Expectations, by Dickens. 20 
Pendennis,by Thackeray, Part 1.20' 
Pendennis,by Thackeray,Part 11.20 

Widow Bedott Papers 20 

Daniel Deronda,Geo. Eliot,Pt. 1.20 

Daniel Deronda, Part II 20 

AltioraPeto, by Oliphant 20 

By the Gate of the Sea, by David 

Christie Murray 15 

Tales of a Traveller, by Irving. . .20 
Life and Voyages of Columbus, 

by Washington Irving, Part I. . 20 
Life and Voyages of Columbus, 

by Washington Irving, Part 11.20 

The Pilgrim's Progress 20 

Martin Chuzzlewit, by Charles 

Dickens, Part 1 20 

Martin Chuzzlewit, Part II 20 

Theophrastus Such, Geo. Eliot... 20 
Disarmed, M. Betham-Edward8..15 
Eugene Aram, by Lord Lytton. 20 
The Spanish Gypsy and Other 

Poems, by George Eliot 20 

Cast Up by the Sea. Baker 20 

Mill on the Floss, Eliot, Pt. I. ..15 

Mill on the Floss, PartTI 15 

Brother Jacob, and Mr. Gilfil's 

Love Story, by George Eliot. . .10 
Wrecks in the Sea of Life 20 



BRAnr AITD 1JER7E POOB. 




Vitalized Pbos-pbites, 

COMPOSED OF THE NERVE-GIVINa PItINCIp£ES OP 
THE OX-BBAIN AND WHEAT-GEBH. 

It restores the energy lost by Nervousness or Indigestion : relieves 
Lassitude and Neuralgia ; refreshes the nerves tired by worry, excite- 
ment, or excessive brain fatigue ; strengthens a failing memory, and 
gives renewed vigor In all diseases of Nervous Exhaustion or Debility. 
It IS the only PREVENTIVE FOR CONSUMPTION. 

It aidaw&nderfvUy in t?ie mental and bodily growth of infanta and 
children. Under its use the teeth come easier, the b&nes grino better, the skin 
plumper and smother; the brain acquires more readily, and rests and sleeps 
mcrt 8u>eeUy. An iU-fed brain learns no lessons, and is excusable ifpetvish. 
It gives a happufr and better childhood, 

" It is with the utmost confidence that I recommend this excellent pre- 
paration for the relief of indigestion and for general debility; nay, I do more 
than recommend, 1 really urge all invalids to put it to the test, for in sev- 
eral eases personally known to me signal benefits have been derired from 
its use I have recently watched its effects on a young friend who has 
suffered from indigestion all her life. After taking the Vitalized Phos- 
phites for a fortnight she said to me; • I feel another person; it is a pleas- 
ure^to live. ' Many hard-working men and women— especially those engaged 
in bram work—would be saved from the fatal resort to chloral and other 
destructive stimulants, if they would have recourse to a remedy so simple 
and so eflicacious. " j ^ f 

Emily Faithfull. 

PIIY8ICLA.N9 HAVE PRESCRIBED OVER 600,000 PACKAGES BECAUSE THET 

KNOW ITS COMPOSmOK, THAT IT IS NOl' A SECRET RBMBDT. AND 

THAT THE FORMULA 18 PRINTED ON EVERY LABEL 

For Sale by Drugrsriatci or toy Bfall, #i. 

g. CROSBY CO., 664 and 666 Sixth Ayenue. New York. | 



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